


Vocivore, Ltd.

by ListerofTardis



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Aftercare, Amateur Medical Treatment, Brainwashing, Certain hints that could be intepreted as, Collar, Enslaved, Forced Nudity, Intrusive Thoughts, Long road to recovery, Medical problems, Needles, Psychological Trauma, Restraints, Since that's one of the suggestions, Swearing, Tentacles, Whump, lying, missing child, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 92,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ListerofTardis/pseuds/ListerofTardis
Summary: An unidentified monster terrorizes the United Realms three years after its inception, enslaving and brainwashing innocents from every land. Casualties mount. A plan hatched out of desperation places Killian at the mercy of the savage villain… where no one survives for long.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also on tumblr (@hookaroo) and FFN.
> 
> A million thanks to the organizers of the OUAT Winter Whump event! The influx of whump in the past few weeks has been amazing and I’m so grateful to be joining with such talented, like-minded people in the torture of our favorite characters. Extra thanks to @ouatwinterwhump for graciously assigning me a later posting date by request. I’ve had some productive weeks recently and am 75% sure the story is 75% complete :]
> 
> To my new friend @huffleporg: thank you for the offer to beta for me, and SO sorry this blossomed into too much. I feel bad that you didn’t get to participate because of me. I support you 100% in having to kindly decline the role, and I’m glad you’re being sensible and not biting off more than you can chew. For what it’s worth, I think that just the idea of using a beta for the first time made me even more nitpicky than usual, so you ended up helping anyway! :) Good luck with med school! You’re awesome!
> 
> This tale is 35 chapters long so far. In order to keep it a true “winter” event, and not stretch all the way into next summer, I plan to do my very best to post twice a week. However, the holiday weeks may see only one update apiece.  
> One great thing about this event was the thought that it could truly be a story with whump as the whole motive, no (self-imposed) pressure to give a deeper meaning or make it fit a more mainstream audience. So… you may find that the whump and aftercare drags on longer than in a “normal” story… because those are the parts I like the most! And it’s kind of the point :) Also, in the usual OUAT style, it jumps back and forth between “past” events and “present,” and the timeline will probably get confusing. My only advice is to pay attention to the labels.
> 
> WARNINGS: Obviously, there’s going to be a lot of pain and graphic injury involved. Also: abduction, restraints, brainwashing, serious medical issues, nudity, some bad language, and finally, hints that could be interpreted as non-con. Especially if you’re a Krakillian shipper who knows all of the wonderful things tentacles can be used for :] But nothing explicit is actually shown. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Fading echoes of a scream bounced off stone walls and lofty ceiling timbers, rattling giant organ pipes and shards of stained glass. Atop the cracked altar, a glut of misshapen candles bore skittish flames that seemed to shudder at the sound. The lower pole of a shabby purple banner tapped an impatient cadence against the nearest wall, persisting beyond silence restored.

“Get up.”

The prone figure shuddered at the command, gathering himself for the effort. A single spear of soft violet obscured one corner of the patch of sunlight in which he lay; it painted his upper arm and shoulder a rusty brown distinct from the pinks and reds mottling the rest of him. But when he finally managed to push himself to his elbows, the anomaly vanished, revealing more of the same. 

Blood. Crusted dry in places, smeared in strangely frantic scribbles across the skin. Oozing from countless small Vs that adorned shoulders, arms, and sides, all a similar size and shape, varying only in depth and neatness. Welling, dripping from deep, round punctures that came in matching pairs: ribs, flanks, and hips. Each feeding a growing crimson pool collecting on ancient paving stones.

Behind him, impassively watching the pathetic struggles, a monster loomed. Six tapered legs supported a rotund thorax, all a mottled blue-gray mimicking cyanosis. The bald head boasted five eyes; a wide, human-like mouth; and no nose or visible ears. Its upper pair of arms ended in seven-fingered hands, each topped with a wicked-looking claw. Protruding from the armpits were a second set of arms ending in the giant pincers of a crab. And the most jarring part: it wore tailored clothing on its top half, looking like a CEO caught in that common nightmare of having arrived to work without pants on.

The beast allowed its slave to push himself as far as his knees before losing patience. A tentacle snaked from beneath its waistcoat and thrust itself through the iron collar that was the wounded man’s only semblance of clothing. One brutal yank, and the slave was scrambling to his feet, pulled by the neck as he clawed desperately at the choking metal. Any noise of protest or pleading that he might have made was thwarted by the closing off of his airway.

A heavy pincer fastened around the prisoner’s bicep and forcibly twisted him to face the monster. Tearing free from the arm, the claw left new stripes of blood along its circumference. Staggering, the slave continued to grip the collar with his singular hand. He would not--or could not--raise his gaze, but stood swaying, muscles quivering visibly, his head bowed. The leash-tentacle maintained its hold, slightly gentler now, allowing the collar to settle more evenly around the bruised, abraded neck. A second tentacle slithered forward to gently stroke the prisoner’s cheek, and the man stiffened in an obvious struggle not to flinch away.

The whole left side of his face was covered in scrapes, almost as if someone had taken a vegetable grater and removed all but the thinnest layer of skin, particularly over the more bony areas. Similar abrasions were apparent all down his front, most notably on knees, feet, and elbows, although all were overshadowed by deeper slashes widely distributed across his person. Some sloppily sutured, others in need of the same. A shiver of contentment rattled the monster’s carapace as it surveyed its prisoner.

“Did you enjoy it this time?”

Its voice was smooth, eerily normal for such an abhorrent appearance. The words startled a flock of oddly pink-hued pigeons in the rafters, and they fluttered urgently around the ceiling before settling back onto their original perches. A second tentacle trailed lazily down the captive’s neck and shoulder, suddenly secreting a sticky slime as it wound around his upper arm. Seconds after contact, the skin beneath grew an angry red and small white blisters formed. The man cringed, squirming slightly in amplified pain, but he managed a calm, though hoarse, reply. 

“Yes, Master.”

Both tentacles tensed, squeezing and pulling momentarily, then relaxed and withdrew. The slave stumbled, nearly fell, and the monster chuckled.

“You lie, Tripod. But… I forgive you.” The crab legs straightened as it raised itself to its full height and adjusted its ridiculous half-suit, continuing, “I think I shall miss that delicious defiance of yours. It added such spice to each and every session. This will be better, though. They always say that deprivation sweetens the dish.”

It snapped its pincer in a double-click, and two smock-clad slaves materialized from the corners and assembled themselves at their Master’s feet. It allowed their automatic prostrations for a moment, then waved a hand in dismissal.

“Take him to Z. I must rest now.”

Wearing vacant expressions, the two newcomers took hold of an elbow each. Their fellow slave did not resist, nor did he say a word as he was frog-marched out of the cathedral, leaving uneven, blood-smudged footprints in his wake.

*****

Z did not speak. Z never spoke, not ever, to any of the dozens of fellow slaves who came staggering through her door. She did what her Master compelled her to do and nothing more. No point in making connections when each passing moment brought them all closer to their inevitable end.

Next. The wounded man took the expected position without being directed, lowering himself gingerly down onto the bare wooden table in the center of the cottage, taking his place among vivid stains that implied blood and gore and other unsavory substances. His escorts disappeared outside: no one particularly enjoyed Z’s attentions, necessary though they may be. Best to avoid her scrutiny whenever possible.

She heard him stifle a groan as his mangled back contacted rough wood. This one--the handless one, the one called “Tripod” by their Master--had been here a remarkably long time and was familiar with her routine. No matter how much the position hurt him, he knew she wanted frontal access first.

Wasted effort, trying to suppress his reactions like that. Z wouldn’t care if he were to howl imprecations, mimic a banshee, or cry like an infant. Most of them did, and it made no difference to her personally. The Master, though… she could feel it, sometimes, commanding her to press a little harder, dig a little deeper, linger through her work. All to encourage the indulgence that would benefit their Master. Didn’t this man understand?  
Just the same as every day for weeks, Z shuffled over to the table, dragging tray and stand, assessing her patient with a dispassionate stare. She hefted her spray bottle and stepped to the head of the table. He closed his eyes in resignation. They all hated when she went for the neck veins. But more often than not, her patients were so dehydrated that it really was the most practical option.

Patch them up, keep them alive, send them back for more.

Sliding the iron band up toward the slave’s chin, Z proceeded to squirt diluted disinfectant all over the right half of his throat. Thunk: a bottle on the tabletop. Soft click and rattle: a cap joining it. And then two fingers, pressing firmly just above his collarbone. Seconds later, she drove the blunt needle into his jugular, the curl of blood in the attached tubing confirming the accuracy of her aim. A single strip of tape secured the setup in place.

Life-sustaining concoction flowing. Next step: the straps. Restraints of leather, crudely affixed to the legs of the table and pulled up to wind firmly around wrists and ankles. Regardless of whether the patients ever intended to struggle, Z’s ministrations were anything but gentle. It was mostly a matter of protection, for her as well as the miserable soul on the table.

This particular slave had presented an interesting challenge at first, but it was nothing that some ingenuity and a couple spare shards of metal couldn’t handle. A thin but rigid post had been driven straight through both bones of his truncated wrist, and the protruding ends contained a ring not unlike that which might adorn the nose of a livestock animal. It was through this that the appropriate strap was threaded, creating a most effective method of controlling his handless arm. The Master had derived a full 48 hours of sustenance from _that_ bit of torture. Z was not gentle in reaching for the limb, even though he always had his arm fully extended in a useless attempt to stop her from yanking on the device. Perhaps it still pained him.

Now tied and helpless, lying spread-eagled like some kind of deformed starfish, the naked man was fully at her mercy. She catalogued his visible wounds while performing the ritual flood: water of questionable cleanliness, tossed from a bucket, head to toe. Rinsing blood, filth, and corrosive slime and leaving him shivering with cold and probably painful dread.

The filthy water cascaded off all edges of the table, puddled on the stone floor, and slowly trickled in the direction of the single drain near the door. Red trails like capillaries, feeding into venules, filling one single vein at the end.

Her patient prepared to her satisfaction, Z expertly arranged her tools. She was no cutting-edge physician--no physician at all, in fact--but she could identify outdated equipment when she saw it. Old-fashioned, worn, and short-stocked: that’s what she had to work with. Rarely, a raid brought in new supplies, but the Master never made it a priority. Why bother, when most of those being treated would last no longer than a week anyway? The favorites, this one especially, received the precious doses of antibiotics hoarded away, and were better off for it. But even these would one day run out. The question was whether he would live long enough for that to become a concern. 

She made inadvertent eye contact just as she was lifting an iodine-soaked gauze pad toward a particularly nasty laceration across the ribs. The slave squeezed his eyes shut in a hurry, but she’d seen the usual mix of fear, despair, and anguish there. She pushed the gauze into the wound, scrubbing roughly. There was no room for what else she had identified: a persistent will to fight the pain. 

Another glance at his face. Through the rictus of agony, he seemed to be mouthing a soundless mantra. No… hope? _No hope._ It was. He was finally coming around to the realization, then. No one could resist, not in the end. Not even him.

Nor should he. His Master wanted-- _needed_ \--his screams. And that’s all that mattered anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

_**12 weeks ago…** _

“Got another one for us?”

Sheriff Emma Swan marched into Dr. Whale’s office without waiting for an invitation, her deputy husband hot on her heels. Whale tossed aside the chart he was currently skimming and leaned back with a sigh. 

“Afraid so. Just got the autopsy report back; you said to call…”

Emma didn’t bother to take a seat. “Everything the same as last time? The brand, the marks, the… brain thing?”

Whale got up with a weary, 

“Yup. I’m assuming you want to take a look?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Emma replied dryly.

*****

Down in the morgue, the medical examiner gave the group a rundown of his findings, concluding with the cause of death, which he explained as “brain shriveling.”

“Almost like the moisture slowly evaporated away, like a grape becoming a raisin.”

He showed both law officers the graphic photos, but neither was keen to study them particularly closely. After a quick glance and polite nod, Emma asked,

“Any ID this time?”

“Unfortunately, no. Fingerprints are still pending, but dental records are doubtful: another who doesn’t appear to have seen the inside of a dentist’s office in his life.”

“And the distinctive marks on the skin?” Killian prompted.

“Present,” confirmed the ME. “As inexplicable as ever.”

“All right, thanks,” said Emma, almost a groan. “Let us know if something does come up.”

******

“I’m beginning to think that this killer has moved beyond showing off to deliberate baiting now,” Killian remarked on their way back to the parking lot.

“With you there,” Emma agreed. “Guess it was just a matter of time.”

Even three years later, the sloppy mish-mash that was the United Realms still caused never-ending headaches for everyone in a position of authority. Most of the time, Queen-of-the-Universe Regina decided all questions of jurisdiction. And when the first bodies had started turning up in a remote corner of the former Land of Untold Stories, the Storybrooke team had provided consult, but left the in-depth investigations to Mr. Earp and/or the Musketeers and/or Sherlock Holmes… whoever ended up in charge over there. But then the location of the discoveries had started to move. Murder victims cropping up all over the land, most recently within Storybrooke itself. Those three had yet to be identified. Now, Killian and Emma were firmly embroiled in the hunt for a serial killer. One that could shrivel brains, apparently.

“Well, I’m off to the Hood-Jones’ residence,” announced Killian. “It remains to be seen whether Hope truly was as angelic as Alice has insisted all day.”

Emma nodded with a wry half-smile. “If you happen to see Killian there, tell him we could use some of Rogers’ skills. We gotta catch this guy. Too many people have died already.”

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_**Present (Monday)…** _

Most of Z’s patients eventually passed out at some point in their treatment. She had grown accustomed to it and only took action to wake them if she thought they still had the capacity to scream. Most of them couldn’t by that point. She let them rest until her repairs were complete… or she needed them to turn over. Like now, for instance.

There are effective techniques for bringing a person out of a swoon. But Z lacked the ingredients to produce smelling salts, and she had found that in most cases, a brisk slap or splash of water did the trick.

The one-handed slave jolted awake, growling hoarsely. She was already working to loosen the straps securing his limbs, and he seemed to comprehend what was required of him. The table was just wide enough for him to struggle onto his side without fear of falling off; the question was always summoning the strength and will. Z never offered assistance. She could not risk injuring herself. If any slave wanted his back tended, it was up to him to give her access.

Another bleeding man staggered inside, saw the occupied table, and slumped just inside the threshold of the dwelling. Awaiting his turn, watching Tripod’s treatment with dull, hopeless eyes. The newcomer had the intermittent, involuntary tremors, as they all did, even Z: one reason why her suturing efforts were not always the neatest.

No recognition or kinship passed between the two patients. They were both there, both suffering for their Master’s pleasure, and that was it. Altruism, developing acquaintance, even empathy… wasted efforts. And no one had the luxury of excess energy. They focused inward, survived as long as they could, gave the Master everything, and then died.

Settling on his stomach with his head facing to his left must have jostled the needle still protruding from Tripod’s neck. But the alternative was to squash it between folded skin, which he instinctively avoided. After a quick check to make sure the saline still flowed freely, Z began retying his restraints. She did not purposely hurry her process, unperturbed by the presence of someone else in desperate need of her assistance. After all, this slave was special. He was her Master’s favorite. She must do all she could to ensure his survival for as long as possible. This was the reason she never bore wounds of her own: she provided a valuable service, extending the life span of all of her charges and causing additional pain as a bonus.

A drenching bucket-shower, followed immediately by a mist of disinfectant. The victim moaned obligingly, writhing, pulling at his bonds. Her Master would be pleased. Z retrieved her suturing tools. Pinch the wound, pierce the edges of what could have been a crab leg puncture, ride out the flinches. Repeat.  
Sometime between stabbings, the slave at the door made a strangled wheezing noise and lurched forward onto his face. Z did not even glance his way. His feeble twitches kept time with her needle for half a dozen stitches, and then, with a final strident gasp, the second prisoner went still. And Z ignored it all. They all died eventually, most sooner than later. One could argue for the mercy of withholding intervention.

Z had lost track of the number of knots holding her patient’s skin together even before pulling tight the last one. By that time, he had lost all ability to plead, whimper, or moan. He stared blankly at the cooling corpse by the door, and she could imagine his blasphemous thoughts: a longing to trade places, his sufferings complete, freed from his duty to his Master. But when Z began untying the leather straps, he seemed to shake the treacherous musings and demonstrate appropriate remorse. Obediently, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself up, wincing a soundless whine. Z’s blood-covered tools lay scattered on the tray beside him, and at the sight, he swayed slightly, perilously close to losing consciousness once again.

Expressionless, Z stepped closer, lifted down the IV bag, eyed its contents, and gave it a squeeze to expel the fluid more rapidly. The tripod slave watched with listless, pain-reddened eyes. Minutes passed, marked by silence and unsteadiness, and then air gurgled into the top of the tubing. Z reached forward, tore off the tape, and plucked the needle free from his neck. Neither of them bothered about the thin trickle of blood that welled from the puncture wound. Negligible, in the grand scheme of things.

As her last act, Z pulled a one-size-fits-all burlap smock from a drawer and tossed it over his head. The garment was essentially a knee-length tunic without sleeves, so it was no great struggle for a slave to slip his trembling arms through the holes.

Done. Next.

Leaving her patient to figure out his own way off the table, Z began dragging the dead slave toward the doorway for someone else to deal with. She didn’t know what became of the corpses, and she didn’t care. That was not within the scope of her Master’s orders.

Eventually, Tripod slid stiffly to the floor. He knew that Z would not allow him to remain there. If he wished a night semi-sheltered from the elements, he would have to return to his chains under his own power. He had not reached the level of collapsing on the street, like others she’d seen. Not yet.

Limited to tiny, hobbling steps in the direction of the exit, he was still inside when Z returned. She did not spare him a second glance as their paths crossed. She had instruments to clean and, with luck, a moment to sit and rest tired feet.

Her fellow slave was just as aloof.

There had once been a day when he would have grunted a halfhearted “until tomorrow” at her as he left, an exhibition of bravery and expression of grudging gratitude that he  
probably never quite felt. Unmoved, Z would completely ignore the gesture, preparing her equipment for the next victim as he limped away for another night. He would once have said it, even with a throat too raw to render the words audible.

He never said it anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

_**10 weeks ago…** _

Emma glanced at her caller ID with a feeling of dread. Just as she suspected: Whale.  
  
“We’ve got a live one this time,” the physician announced as soon as she answered. Emma couldn’t stop a surge of excited curiosity. Finally, for the first time, someone who could give them some answers.  
  
“We’ll be right there.”

*****

“Marco found him wandering the neighborhood. Peeking in windows, trying doorknobs, being shady.”  
  
“Huh.” Emma and Killian were following Dr. Whale down the complex of hallways that would lead to the Storybrooke General ICU. “Has he said anything?”  
  
“Only that he wants to return to his master.”  
  
“Oh. That’s… creepy.”  
  
“Any luck on identification?” asked Killian. Whale shook his head.  
  
“Not yet. He won’t tell us his name, and all he was wearing was that weird gunny sack thing and the collar, like all the others. We managed to cut the padlock with a bolt cutter while he was still unconscious.” The physician stopped outside a doorway, lowering his voice. “He’s severely malnourished, he’s anemic, has a number of nasty injuries that look like they were tended to by a first-grader. All that plus the brain thing… I don’t think he’ll last very long.”  
  
“Do what you can for him,” said Emma quietly. And then the trio filed into the room.  
  
The bedridden man looked downright corpse-like. If it hadn’t been for the monitors reporting his vital signs, Emma would have believed him to be yet another murder victim awaiting autopsy. His skin tone matched his bed sheets, pulled tightly over gaunt features, hollow cheeks, and sunken eyes. Atop the blankets, his hands twitched an irregular rhythm quite unlike normal fidgeting. Emma could just make out the reddened edge of the brand they all bore on the palm, nearest the thumb. And worst of all, those disturbing flattened Vs notched into the skin, another trademark symbol of the elusive killer.  
  
“Hey there,” Emma greeted gently. “I’m Emma. This is Killian. We’re trying to figure out what’s going on here. Maybe you can help us.”  
  
The man wouldn’t open his eyes. He made a tiny whimper and the tremors increased in intensity for a moment, then lessened.  
  
“Can you tell us your name?” Killian, too, spoke in quiet, soothing tones; neither of them wished to cause him undue distress, but they both knew the importance of their investigation. Nearly 50 victims had been discovered so far, all across the United Realms, and the urgency of identifying the killer grew with each passing day.  
  
The man on the bed stayed silent. Emma and her husband exchanged a glance, then she said,  
  
“You’re safe now. You’re among friends. But we need you to tell us who did this to you, so we can stop it from happening to anyone else.”  
  
“Re… return,” wheezed the man. His eyelids fluttered briefly. “I must… return. To my Master.”  
  
Emma made a face, but asked,  
  
“Your master? Can you tell us about your master?”  
  
“My… my Master…” He stilled, catching his breath. A tear trickled slowly down his temple. “I must…”  
  
Suddenly, a dozen alarms screeched their various warnings, and the man went into wild convulsions. Dr. Whale quickly but calmly stepped closer, smacking a code button and working to position the man for intervention. The two law officers backed out of the way, both feeling a sense of awful futility.  
  
Ten minutes later, the man was pronounced dead, one more victim of a faceless killer. And they were no closer to an arrest…

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_**Present (Monday)…**_  
It used to be a horse stall. The middle one on the left was his: still a long walk when he was broken and exhausted, but without the privacy afforded by those at the very end. Killian loathed the sight of it, and yet it signified hours of rest. Hours when he was not being struck, squeezed, bled, or scalded. Hours covered, granted that rare commodity that was his modesty, allowed what warmth could be gleaned from a pile of blood-stained straw and sackcloth.  
  
Hours to wrestle against thoughts not his own.  
  
_No hope. No hope. No hope._  
  
The half-door stayed open. No flimsy reassurance of protection there. Anyone could enter at any time, including the Master itself… and that was not an uncommon occurrence.  
  
Once a day--usually--two buckets were set on the floor by the door, one containing water and the other a distasteful sludge supposedly passing as food. No matter his condition, Killian would force himself to crawl over and drain both using a filthy hand as his only utensil. Sometimes he swallowed just as much blood as he did sustenance. Sometimes he couldn’t keep any of it down. But he always tried; the Master willed it so.  
  
Killian hobbled to the back wall. His first day, he’d ignored the chains hanging there, having had no instruction otherwise. It was a mistake he never made again. One for the collar, one for the wrist ring. Long enough to allow movement within the stall, always accompanied by the inevitable, headache-inducing clatter that echoed all throughout the barn. One had to wonder about their purpose; no slave had the physical capacity or mental wherewithal to attempt escape.  
  
Each padlock clicked closed, and the familiar weight of the iron links tugged at his neck and wrist. Throbbing and aching, Killian sank to his knees. He held his breath through the exertion required to lower himself onto his side and arrange a blanket of straw. Then, just before surrendering to the pull of unconsciousness, he uttered a futile, almost inaudible sigh.  
  
“Good night, Swan.”


	4. Chapter 4

_**Six weeks ago…**_  
  
“You guys all right?”

After checking that her husband and his counterpart were not being followed, Emma holstered her gun and headed to meet them. Killian’s shirt was torn at the shoulder, and Detective Jones--formerly Rogers--appeared to be limping.

“We were attacked by a half-dozen slaves,” admitted Killian with a grimace. Now at arm’s length, Emma hooked a finger beneath the fabric of his shirt to examine the bloody slash beneath.

“Same old story,” she replied. “The difference being that everyone _else_ had the sense not to engage. You know, like we agreed?”

As Emma spread her hand and hovered it over the wound, Detective Jones spoke up.

“To be fair, this particular group was markedly loathe to let us retreat. Could be they were trying to recruit new colleagues… or we were nearing their base and they felt they had to defend it.”

Emma flexed her fingers and rotated her wrist a few times. Her healing magic felt sluggish somehow, as if being forced through a half-clogged drain. Killian watched her with one eyebrow raised.

“Everything okay, love?”

“Yeah, just… hold on a sec…”

She closed her eyes in concentration, and with an extra burst of effort, she finally managed to call forth the recalcitrant power. It took nearly double the usual amount of time, but the cut did eventually seal closed. Killian released his breath and placed a kiss on his wife’s forehead.

“Thank you.”

She responded with a tired smile and then turned to Jones. “Let’s see.”

Sheepishly, he waved off her concern. “I’m okay; don’t waste your magic on me.”

Emma shot him her best _Killian-you’re-being-an-idiot_ look. “You want to walk all the way back to the car like that? When there could be zombie slaves waiting behind any tree, wanting to kill us?”

With a rueful smile and shake of his head, Jones relented and hobbled to a nearby fallen log.

“I stumbled back against some sort of rock ledge,” he explained, taking a seat and beginning to roll up the right leg of his jeans. “Got a bit scraped up.”

“And then fell flat on his arse,” teased Killian. “Didn’t you, mate?”

“Like you haven’t done that a hundred times since I met you,” scoffed Emma. Jones merely smiled and struggled to get the denim higher around his calf.

“I’m happy to report that my arse is fine. Although the point is entirely moot, considering that I would never, under any circumstances, subject either of you to _that_ sight.”

Killian appeared as if he didn’t know whether to look scandalized or intrigued. And if Emma was more on the side of intrigue, she quickly covered it up with a sympathetic wince as the injury to Jones’ leg was revealed. 

A livid abrasion ran the outer length of his lower leg, ankle to knee. Fairly shallow overall, only weeping small droplets of blood in pinprick patterns, it nevertheless had to be pretty sore. Emma knelt beside him and positioned both hands above the damaged flesh.

Long moments went by with no appreciable improvement. Jones looked questioningly up at Killian, who shook his head, just as clueless. Jones shifted his weight and began,

“You know, Emma, if you’re tired, I’m sure we could ask Regina to--”

“Shut up and let me concentrate,” Emma muttered without malice. The detective closed his mouth.

“It’s like… really low signal on the cell phone,” she explained a moment later. The outer edges of the abrasion were beginning to fade, although agonizingly slowly. “The call keeps… cutting out.”

Jones fidgeted minutely on the log, the prickle of magic producing a strong temptation to squirm. “Why would that be, do you think?”

“No frickin’ clue.” She was sweating now. Killian fished out a canteen of water for her, holding it between arm and torso as he unscrewed the lid. “Just that the closer we get to the hideout, the stronger the interference.”

“So the brain-shriveling monster also has magical shielding,” remarked Killian with a dramatic glance up at the heavens. “Just what we needed.”

Jones’ knuckles were turning white as he gripped the wood beside him. He was sweating, too. 

“You can stop now, if you need to,” he grunted. “The leg’s already feeling much improved.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” chided Emma gently. “I’m almost done.”

As it seemed she no longer needed to concentrate quite so hard--due to momentum or just stubborn willpower--Killian decided to take pity on the other man and give him something else to focus on, asking of Emma, 

“Where’s David?”

“Back at the rendezvous. Meeting the others there. Apparently Regina’s group came across a half-dead slave and are already transporting him to Storybrooke.”

She lifted her hands to check beneath, and the last remnants of the injury faded from view. She and Jones heaved simultaneous sighs of relief; Killian smiled and then held out his hand to help her up.

“Much better,” admitted Jones with an experimental rotation of his ankle. “Thank you.”

Emma nodded and chugged her water. As the detective worked to adjust his jeans, she said,

“Well, we seem to be on the right track. Plotting everything on a map was a good idea.”

Killian didn’t appear to be much encouraged by their progress. “Knowing the general whereabouts of this ‘master’ is still a far cry from defeating him. It’s apparent we can’t sneak in, even through deserted forest. We can’t approach brazenly unless we want an all-out battle. So what now?”

“Henry thought maybe aerial scouting. He wants to order a drone off Amazon.” Emma shrugged. “It would at least confirm for us the exact location of the hideout.”

Jones got to his feet and retrieved his own canteen. “I’m not certain the United Realms is a valid delivery option.”

“It’s not. We’d have to pick it up from a Locker somewhere.” Emma inclined her head in the direction of where they’d left their vehicles, and the two Killians fell into step with her.

“Let’s hope the hideout is within range of the drone’s battery,” mused Jones. “I’m almost positive that Amazon doesn’t sell manned aircraft.”


	5. Chapter 5

_**Present (Tuesday)…** _

The Tripod. Prostrated before his Master. Broken, drained of spirit, devoid of hope. Wrapped only in that delectable darkness that elevated him above all others. The indisputable favorite. Something about him tasted of long years of despair, endless agonies that spiced their sessions into unparalleled delights. His screams were scarce but exquisite. Always enough from the very start, yet sinfully addictive, sometimes dangerously so. Requiring hours of rest, to the point of lethargy, even vulnerability. Fortunate, that Master could exert such control even in hibernation.

A tentacle trailed through sticky blood, rewarded by a shudder beneath. The caress was thanks, praise for unmatched longevity. Approaching four weeks now, in human terms; double the record of the slave who’d achieved the second-longest lifespan. And this one served nearly _every day._ Unheard of. Doubtless his hours had blended now into an endless haze of pain. Did he still remember his original purpose? That inconsequential plea, that bargain with no payout?

Balanced on Master’s shoulders, pink pigeons gurgled and fluffed their feathers, undisturbed by the mad scramble made necessary whenever their perch shifted positions. The tentacle stretched further, found a new rent in the flesh, somewhere beneath the deformed limb trying fruitlessly to conceal it. As if it had a mind of its own, the appendage wormed its way into the breach. So warm. So pulpy. The endoskeleton there for the stroking. Tripod’s responding sounds tantalizing but empty. Growing weaker, in fact. Too much?

Beneath breathtakingly misshapen skin, the probing tentacle stilled. Master touched a claw to the area of deepest penetration: the center of Tripod’s thorax. Or very near. The weak flutter that symbolized the efforts of this human’s circulatory system felt like nothing more than a curl of wind across a sheltered tidal pool, Master’s long-gone crèche.

“I am moderately pleased.” Master curled its tentacle tip; Tripod groaned. His half-limb flailed ineffectually at the worsening wound. “You have earned one Exchange today.”

It was a game they played, just one more thing to distinguish this one from the rest. Rare was the slave who dared to talk, to _think_ in their Master’s presence. Unintelligible pleading, yes. From those that stopped their screams long enough. Tripod… he was interactive. Once drained of his initial concern, once firmly under his Master’s thrall, it was,

_“How else can I serve you, Master?”_

Day four: _“I want to help you, Master.”--“Hush, dear Tripod; you already have.”_

Day five: _“Master, I… I worry about you. Do you have enough slaves? I’ve only counted a score; surely you require many more.”--“Little Tripod, quiet your mind. As many marks as my claws have inflicted upon you, so many slaves have I at my command.”_

Day six: _“Forgive me, my Master; I have helped to plot against you. Your foes seek to destroy you from the skies; have you sufficient fortifications against them?”--“Tripod, Tripod… their attacks have already failed. My eyes and ears are many; my reach extends far beyond this compound. My safety is no concern of yours.”_

It was then that the realization had dawned: this slave retained his mind to a far greater extent than ever before. In combination with his loyalty… could he help subdue this kingdom and ensure Master’s long-term survival?

Day seven: _“Dearest Tripod, you have done so well today. I now offer you an Exchange. Help me to reach satisfaction each day, and you will be allowed one moment of freedom for your tongue. Share your memories, or ask to know me more deeply. Teach me the ways of your land, and I will instruct you in mine.”_

And the three-legged human had shed renewed tears in response.

Today, it came to this:

“Master… I ask that you…”

The pathetic creature was having difficulty. Breath would not come. His voice cracked and faded out. Slowly, Master pulled back on its tentacle. Tripod shuddered and squirmed, his cries nearly silent. A cascade of blood splattered the floor as the tentacle squelched free.

Excreting caustic slime, it trailed its way across the wasted form below, almost lovingly smearing the blood from its tip. “Go on, little thing.”

Whenever this slave reached levels of pain beyond excruciating, he succumbed to the Dance of the Faithful. That which killed normal slaves within days, or a week at most. Five eyes watched the tremors, mourning the reminder of the favorite’s eventual demise. Oddly resistant he may be… but not wholly immune.

“Please… allow me to… to see your surveillance network. I… I can point out to you… those cameras of greatest significance.”

The man’s whole body quaked, glistening with rusty sweat, yet he’d managed to force his purpose through grating voice. Such loyalty.

“An intriguing thought.” Master used a claw to pinch closed the leaking wound. Tripod shivered. “Not yet.”

Acidic disappointment radiated off the slave as he closed his eyes in submission. “Yes, Master.”

Master regretted spoiling the emotion. Yet Tripod was in enough pain to compensate for the elation that would surely come. “I have a different assignment for you.”

The poor thing was so spent that he could not force his eyes open, though he tried. “Anything.”

Master pinched harder to displace his excitement, which grew dim, but the enthusiasm remained.

Those slaves routinely sent out on errands, as a rule, tended to last longer. But the necessary caveat was that they would be away from their Master’s presence for days on end. It had not yet found the willpower to separate itself from Tripod’s pleasures for that long. It hardly even needed the others with its favorite around. Still... if it could make do with boiled chicken for a day or two, perhaps it could retain its filet mignon for longer. And then his return would be an occasion for feasting. 

“Can I trust you?”

“Yes, Master. I will obey you.”

Truth. The words tasted of sickening honesty and devotion. Not quite bordering on love, but near to it. And spicy deception remained conspicuous in its absence. Master had no reason to fear that its favorite would fail to return. 

“Off to Z with you now. Tomorrow’s raid will require some stamina.”


	6. Chapter 6

_**Present (Tuesday, continued)...** _

_Scrape. Scraaaaaaape. Snick._

Before, there would have been no slips. No nicks. In her past life, Z could shave any location, any surgical site or abscessed wound down to the smoothness of plate glass, in many cases even before the animal had been sedated. Never would one of her patients suffer the slightest case of razor burn, and she used to take pride in that fact.

Of course, that was before the tremors. Before the piss-poor lighting and tarnished straight blades that wouldn’t hold an edge despite all efforts to grind them to a sufficient sharpness. 

Before she had her Master.

Two motivations compelled her to bring out the razor these days, regardless of the sloppy results. First, and most important: her Master preferred close-cropped facial hair. It could not care less about the state of that which grew from scalps, backs, chests, or even pubises, but it would not abide an unkempt beard. 

Second, Z appreciated the ability to quickly glance at a face and determine the presence or absence of wounds there. If she had the time, she would shave everyone’s heads for the same reason. Not to mention the parasites probably running rampant among them. But efficiency dictated that she reserve her efforts solely for express orders, and then only for the slaves who lived long enough to require it.

Z gripped Tripod’s chin, restraining his head and stretching his neck while her blade skidded along his throat. Any sudden twitch here, by either of them, could mean a quick end to his tenure. She did not know if she would be punished for an accidental slaughter, but she had to assume so. The thought did not frighten her, though. It would only be what she deserved.

Another gouge opened along his jawline, welling dark blood that mixed with the soapy water on his neck to form a carmine film extending beneath his collar. He had stopped resisting the procedure weeks ago and did not flinch now. Z mowed a final swath up the outer edge of his throat and then tossed the razor into her tub of disinfectant. As she blotted the water, blood, and ginger hairs from his neck and face, she stole a glance higher. He had his eyes closed, but she knew he was conscious. 

Unmoved by the tear that crept down his temple, Z dunked her rag into the bucket of soapy water, then checked the IV bag hanging from the ceiling. This slave was getting extra fluids today at their Master’s request; something about an upcoming mission. Frankly, Z was surprised that the favorite would be allowed out of his Master’s vicinity, but she trusted its plan. It knew more than she could ever hope to know. She would always have faith in her Master.

On shaving days, if she had no other patients awaiting her attention, she always finished up with a more thorough wash than could be provided by the bucket of water preceding wound care. None of them liked it much, and the cleanliness never lasted long, but her honed desire for sterility could not be ignored. And it did help with the awful stench that some of them carried.

Armpits first. She scrubbed as vigorously as she dared without disturbing any nearby injuries. This one was not overly ticklish and likely only squirmed in anticipation of what would follow. Sweat scoured away, a drizzle of water to rinse, repeat on the other side. 

Groin next. Some of the men stiffened at her touch, as she cleansed their most intimate parts. Dangerous, that. They must not stay too long in a state of arousal before being transported into the pain of frustration. Because some of them enjoyed it too much. Never Tripod, though, and Z had known why since day one: he was one of _those._ The select few who served a double purpose. With all of her easy detachment, the effortless way she could ignore suffering and death all around her, that was the one situation that could get to her. The one time she ever felt sorry for the hapless soul on the table.

Even without any sign of damage--which sometimes happened as a part of any routine session with the Master-- _those_ slaves would recoil from her rag, shy away from her touch and pull against their restraints. Acting sore. Appearing apprehensive. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, without a single tentacle in the room. And Z always found herself moving tenderly, stroking with gentleness, rubbing away crusted stains of unknown filth with the utmost care. She could not explain herself, not in her present mindset. But not even the awareness of her Master's presence absorbing every nuance of emotion in the room was enough to make rough her movements.

Tripod still struggled, though.

Today, enough blood streaked his backside to warrant yet another flip of position on the table, just to give Z better access. She had noticed it earlier, while tending to matching claw marks over his kidneys, but had no guarantee of sufficient time to shave him, which took priority. But no one stood bleeding on her porch yet. Z quickly freed his ankles from their straps, and when he opened his eyes, she met his gaze with a commanding stare that communicated exactly what she wanted from him without having to speak a word. It probably helped that they'd been through the process more than once before.

Tripod didn't move. Whether from exhaustion, fear of the pain of movement, or simple reluctance. Z finished untying the strap through his wrist ring and gripped the metal itself, hearing the expected gasp from the man beside her without even exerting much force. She would have to consider installing one in all of her patients, or at least, those strong enough to have a chance at longevity. The device made this man so much easier to control.

Following the excruciating lead of the metal stake through his wrist, Tripod struggled up onto his opposite elbow, then over onto his belly with a groan. Z was already securing the outstretched arm as he sought a comfortable position. Then she noticed the growing pool of saline near his elbow: in all of the exertion, the needle had been pulled free of his arm. Z shut off the flow, glancing up to check the bag's remaining contents. Less than 200ml; hardly worth the effort of locating a new vein to puncture. Yet the Master wanted him to have the whole second liter.

Animals can tolerate subcutaneous fluids. Humans are animals. Z picked up the offending needle and scoured Tripod's back for an intact patch of skin. Not easy, given his current state. She wondered briefly whether the stripes of old scar tissue would prevent the easy spread of saline in the sub-Q space. But a sense of urgency--one that may not have originated in her own mind--caused her to brush aside the concern. She pinched a fold of skin between marked shoulder blades, noting the contrast to the scruff of a canine or feline form, and aimed for a stretch of skin not whitish-pink. After thrusting the needle into place, she ripped off the half-strip of tape still clinging to his forearm and used that to stick the tubing to his upper back.

The saline flowed, though drip by sluggish drip. She would have to apply pressure to the bag before allowing him to leave. But for now, it worked. Z finished restraining his limbs and returned to the task at hand.

Tripod was already trembling, even before her soapy rag brushed against him. She started on the outer edges and worked her way in a spiral towards the center. As usual, he'd buried his face against an arm. Hiding shame? Stifling whimpers? She knew it hurt, the soap against raw, cracked flesh. Yet that would not be the whole of what bothered him. And there was no way for her to tend this injury without the unwanted touch.

She had in her arsenal an ointment that would temporarily soothe the physical aspect. Given the choice, he would probably decline, just to avoid the seconds of discomfort that its application brought. But Z was not interested in his opinion; nor did she require his consent. If it was in his best interest, he got it, plain and simple. He knew it, too. He also knew exactly when to hold his breath as she smeared the substance around and then a short distance inside. It would not reverse the damage. It would not heal his psyche. But at least he would have an hour's relief from the burning.

Normally, that would be it; she would untie him and he would flee as fast as he could manage. But he had to finish the bag of saline. So Z washed her hands and allowed the fluids to continue their lethargic dripping. His face still hidden, Tripod waited, likely wondering about the delay. He would have felt the poke in his back, and may have made the connection with the IV fluids; if he had, he would be expecting Z to speed administration, as she always did.

Starting from the top, Z began to roll the plastic pouch, which created enough pressure to overcome the resistance from the subcutaneous tissue. The now-streaming fluid did not appear to cause him any great degree of discomfort, though it did begin to form a large, reddened wheal around the puncture site. Silent moments passed. The tripod slave lay in a passive daze, doubtless exhausted and ready to retreat. 

Once the pouch had drained, Z plucked the needle from his back. A negligible amount of saline leaked from the tiny hole, but she felt it no cause for concern. The majority of the fluids would eventually be absorbed into his bloodstream, there to remain until the following day’s encounter with the Master opened new escape routes. 

No, she remembered, busy untying his restraints. Tomorrow would bring his first mission, his first excursion away from this village of misery. He may avoid bloodshed for several days, if he took proper caution.

Tripod was on his feet before Z could even toss a fresh tunic in his direction. The smallest of whines sounded in the back of his throat as he pulled the garment over his head, all while hobbling toward the door. Eager for a rest herself, Z was too busy cleaning up to see him go. But had she been watching, she would have noticed that his exit took him not to the left, toward the slave barn and sleep, but to the right, out into the darkening twilight. In search of something only he could name.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Five weeks ago…** _

Sheriff Emma Swan was so deep in thought that she didn’t realize how hard she was chewing her pen until her teeth practically met, only a thin layer of gnawed plastic sandwiched between them. She made a noise of frustrated disgust and tossed the implement away, sighing, still deeply absorbed in the papers before her. She wasn’t making much progress and had come to the point where continued staring wasn’t even helping her to feel like she was doing something useful anymore. So when the outer door of the station opened, she found herself grateful for the interruption, despite the grim situation looming before her.

“Killian?” she called. He was almost ten minutes late and hadn’t contacted her, which was unlike him. But it wasn’t her husband who sauntered into the bullpen.

“No, I’m not, and glad of it.”

“Dad.” Emma grinned and got up from her desk. “What’s up?”

“I was in the area, thought I should stop by and see how you’re doing. Any progress on figuring out a way to defeat this guy?”

“Not yet,” she admitted with a dejected sigh. She glanced out the window, making a face at the collection of pigeon droppings gathered on the sill. “And now, on top of everything else, my magic is on the fritz; I dunno if the monster’s shield is expanding or what.”

“That’s just what we need,” scowled David, looking uneasy. 

“Everything okay at your place? You guys feel safe enough out there?”

“Oh, we’re fine. Decided to invest in a couple security cameras, though.”

“Not a bad idea. I’ve heard a few other people mention that, too. Mr. Olsen must be doing good business.”

Nodding, David glanced at the papers littering her desk. And Killian’s desk. And the floor between their desks. “You, uh, need a hand in here?”

“No, we were just--”

A loud thump against the front door interrupted her train of thought. Immediately thereafter, concerned voices and exclamations outside had both sheriff and former sheriff rushing toward the entryway.

Before they could reach it, the door lurched open, and in tumbled Killian. He had his hook around the doorknob, leaning his left shoulder against the wood as if it were the only thing keeping him on his feet. Emma sucked in a breath at the sight of him. The blood. The crazed look in his eyes. The way his knees shook under him.

“Swan,” he wheezed frantically. She saw then that he held his hand pressed against his side, blood seeping through his fingers and over his rings. Emma clawed at the hand, trying to catch a glimpse of the wound beneath. Killian caught her wrist with slippery fingers. “They’ve taken her.”

It didn't even register with Emma that he had spoken until his grip on her tightened. She looked up, saw his bruised and puffy face, the gashes oozing blood from hairline, eyebrow, cheekbone. And devastated tears in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Killian choked out. “They’ve taken Hope.”

And then he went limp in Emma’s arms.

*****

Killian started coming around just before the paramedics arrived. David could feel him stirring beneath his hands as he put pressure on the steadily trickling wound in his side. Evidently, laying him flat with his feet elevated had increased blood flow to his brain as intended.

“Hang on, pirate; you’re gonna be just fine.”

A groggy and confused Killian merely groaned softly, trying and failing to lift his hand to his face. The limb flopped back down onto his torso just as a pair of emergency medical personnel trooped into the sheriff’s station.

One of them began to set up some equipment while the other grilled David for details he did not know. The first got as far as wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Killian’s arm when the wounded pirate sat up suddenly--or at least, that was his aim. The combination of David’s hands on his abdomen and what must have been searing pain from the injury stopped him at his elbows.

“Lie back, Killian; you’re hurt,” David urged. Killian’s eyes flickered open from a grimace. He blinked as he took in the scene surrounding him.

“Where’s Emma?” His tone was desperate, though he looked too dazed to recall what had happened. One medic placed a hand on his chest, trying to convince him to relax; the other worked to remove his shirt.

“She… went to your house. She knew you’d be in good hands here, and wanted to start looking…” David trailed off; he wasn’t sure it would be entirely wise to remind Killian of his missing daughter in his current state.

He needn’t have hesitated. His son-in-law began struggling again, attempting to wrench his arms from the meddling paramedics, gripping David’s wrist and nearly pulling him off balance as he surged to a sitting position.

“I have to help her, we have to… there’s…”

Killian turned an alarming shade of white, and David reached for his elbow, certain he would pass out again. The pirate put an unsteady hand to his face and swiped at his eyes. The blood staining his fingers left smudges along the bridge of his nose and eyelids.

“No, you have to take it easy,” corrected David. One medic had succeeded in positioning the blood pressure cuff; the other had opened a bag of saline and was busily priming an IV line. “Emma told me her magic is malfunctioning right now; she can’t heal you.”

“But Hope--”

“We’ll find her,” David said firmly with that unshakable, determined faith characteristic of his family. He briefly placed his hand over Killian’s, squeezing in comfort and promise. Then he surrendered it to the cannula-wielding EMT. “Tell you what: I’ll meet you at the hospital. Once you’re feeling better, we can go over what happened together, then pass the details along to Emma so she knows what to look for. Sound good?”

Killian nodded mechanically, eyes glazed and far away. Though he appeared to be watching the attempts to start an IV, he did not seem to feel the needle piercing the side of his wrist. 

David could easily relate. A combination of nauseating dread for his granddaughter’s well-being, unprovoked swapping places and imagining Neal being abducted, and hazy memories of what it had felt like to surrender Emma to an unknown fate--those years of worry, never certain of her happiness or even survival--all swirled together to surge adrenaline through his veins. Filling him with the need to run somewhere, do _something_ to help. He knew Killian felt exactly the same, and would probably be staggering out there right now, stab wound be damned, if it weren’t for the three people holding him down, the one he trusted talking sense into him. So David quelled his own roiling emotions and stayed with his son-in-law until he was safely stowed in the ambulance and en route to the hospital. Only then, as he washed the blood from his hands and arms, did David allow himself to give in to panic. Sweet little Hope, missing. Worse than missing, _taken._ With a crazed killer on the loose and magic unreliable. What were they going to do?


	8. Chapter 8

_**4 weeks, 5 days ago…** _

“Killian, what the hell are you doing out of bed?”

Clutching the banister in a death grip, Killian clomped down the final step with a grunt. He flashed a grimace at his wife. “Helping.”

The word sounded strangled, like he’d had to squeeze it out of his throat. As he began the daunting trek to the dining room table, he held his arm stiffly against his side and walked with a hobbling gait, favoring his right leg. Emma rolled her eyes.

“You literally _just_ got released from the hospital, like, an hour ago. Whale told you to rest.”

Killian ignored the comment and continued his struggle with dark determination. Next to Emma at the table, Detective Jones kicked back the chair across from him, knowing that Killian wouldn’t appreciate a fuss. “Come join us. We were just going over the map again; maybe you can provide some new insight.”

With a nod, Killian sank heavily into the chair, out of breath from the exertion. Emma gave him a sidelong glance, taking in his darkly bruised features, hollow eyes, and stare glazed with obvious pain.

“You look like crap.”

In truth, she herself did not look much better: deep shadows underlined weary eyes set in a ghostly pale face. Not one of them would have been surprised to hear she hadn’t slept since the report of Hope’s disappearance. But neither man had the self-destructive urge to say so.

Tactfully, Detective Jones asked,

“How are you feeling, mate?”

Killian straightened with effort, growling,

“I’m all right; we’ve both survived much worse. Just a flesh wound, and bloody Whale has me on enough painkillers to knock out a horse.”

“Which you refuse to take,” Emma grumbled.

“Ah, yes. Sounds par for the course, then.” Jones’ attempt at a light-hearted smile was met with mild irritation. He sighed and returned to business. “Okay. Would you mind terribly going over the details once again? There may be something we’ve missed; some nuance, or--”

Killian ran his hand gingerly over his eyes, interrupting with a weary sigh. “I’ve been over it thoroughly several times now, mate. I thought we were scouring the map.”

“Well, yes, but it’s helpful to have your testimony alongside. If you’re up to it.” At Killian’s reluctant nod, Jones continued, “You were walking through the park, correct? Somewhat near the pond?”

He indicated the place already marked in red ink; Killian grimly confirmed the spot.

“Aye, on the way to Ashley’s for the afternoon.”

“And the men came from behind the trees, here?”

Killian nodded, scrubbing at his face as if haunted by the memory. Jones felt for him, but gently pressed on.

“You said they didn’t appear to be slaves?”

“No; they wore regular clothing, had none of the usual identifying traits of the slaves.”

“Have you been able to remember anything unique about any of them? Any scars or tattoos; anything of that sort?”

Killian shook his head with a pained sigh, still massaging his eyes. Emma, who was sitting with her arms crossed protectively over herself and staring down at the tabletop in front of her, surprised both of them by muttering a bitter,

“Some lawman _you_ are.”

His hand fell to his lap, and Killian snapped back,

“I was a bit busy at the time.”

Emma looked up then, eyes red-rimmed and wild. “Well, maybe if you would stop and _think_ about if for a minute, rather than charging ahead to the ‘map scouring--’”

“Emma, I haven’t _stopped_ thinking about it since it happened. Waking or sleeping!”

Feeling more uncomfortable by the second, Jones attempted to be a calming presence for the two distraught parents. “Okay, let’s try to stay rational here.” He hesitated, but decided that a blunt approach would be best. Quickest, if nothing else. “Killian, you reported that one man took hold of Hope while the other three attacked you.”

Clenching his jaw, Killian nodded confirmation without meeting the gaze of either companion. Trying to project sympathy, Jones quietly asked,

“And you’d indicated that you didn’t see for certain the direction in which the fourth man fled.”

In a low voice, obviously berating himself for his failure, Killian growled,

“I was too busy being bludgeoned to pay attention to that detail. By the time I managed to fight my way up off the ground, he’d vanished.”

Switching gears, lest Killian fall victim to the vortex of nightmarish recollection, Jones went on,

“Do you remember anything about the weapon with which you were stabbed?”

Killian’s expression and tone both dripped with cynicism. “It was sharp. Hurt like hell and I thought I was done for. The men must have believed so too, or they may not have left at that point.”

Jones glanced down at the map. “And they went off in this direction?” At Killian’s confirmation, he said, “Okay, and we already have your damaged phone to examine for evidence, and we know that you--”

“Why didn’t you stop them?” 

There was such fierce accusation in Emma’s tone that the whole world seemed to freeze in that moment. Killian’s face went slack, his eyes dead, only his jaw muscles moving as his teeth clenched hard, and Jones knew she had voiced the question that had been hounding him all along. In an instant, the deputy had clothed himself in derision. Jones recognized the tactic all too well.

“And there it is at last,” scoffed Killian. “Been feeling that way all along, have you?”

“You were in charge! You were supposed to protect her!”

Jones had to say something, before one of them expressed their turmoil in words they would later regret. “Emma, you have every right to be frightened and angry, but it’s more productive to lay the blame at the feet of those actually responsible.”

Emma barely spared him a glance. “Stay out of this, Jones. If we’re gonna take advice from someone, it sure as hell isn’t gonna be the author of _How to Lose Your Daughter for a Decade_.”

It wasn’t her talking. It was the sheer terror, the desperation and the fury. But… it still hurt. Jones sat back in his seat, simply breathing. In the meantime, something spurred Killian to defend his counterpart, if only to have an excuse to snap back at his wife.

“Bloody hell, Emma, that was a bit harsh, wouldn’t you say? By all means, take your rage out on me; there’s nothing you can say that I haven’t already thought myself. But leave him out of it. He’s only trying to help.”

Choking back tears, Emma ignored the tangent. “You stood up to Hades. You fed yourself to Cerberus. You internalized the power of all Dark Ones ever in order to vanquish it from the world. But when it comes to the safety of our daughter, you’re defeated by three guys and a kitchen knife?!”

Killian didn’t bother to try and correct the understatement. 

“If anything happens to her…” She was unable to continue. But, unflinching, Killian finished her thought.

“It will be my fault. I know.” 

Emma couldn’t meet his blank stare. She got up, muttering,

“This is a waste of time. I’m going back to the search.”

Neither man made an effort to stop her. She yanked the door open, ducked a flurry of wings, and cursed.

“Damn these pigeons!!”

The slam of the front door echoed through the barren house for far longer than seemed natural, after which the instant replay of the charged conversation took center stage. Killian sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose; Jones could practically hear his thoughts.

“Don’t do that to yourself, mate. It isn’t worth it.”

Killian acted as if he hadn’t heard. There was a long silence, and the detective debated with himself whether he was providing moral support or merely an intrusion. Finally, with eyes averted, Killian said,

“I’m sorry. She didn’t mean what she said to you. If there’s anyone we _should_ seek counsel from, you’re at the top of the list.”

Jones’ small smile was sad and not at all flattered. 

“We’ll find her,” he said simply. And Killian nodded robotically. 

Of course, the differences between the two circumstances were hardly minor. At least when Jones had been separated from Alice, she was of an age where she could fend for herself a little bit. If Hope was not being cared for by those who took her… if she wandered off somehow and got lost…

“Maybe Emma’s right,” Killian said, interrupting his train of thought. “I don’t know how much more I can give you at this point. Would you be willing to go with her?”

“Of course,” Jones replied quickly, keen to provide whatever assistance would best ease the other’s mind. “Will you be okay fending for yourself?”

Killian flashed him an amused, impatient, _what-do-you-think?_ kind of look. Jones had no trouble interpreting it and felt slightly foolish for having asked. He smiled ruefully as he got up.

“Do you at least have a way of contacting us if you remember something?”

“Snow loaned me her phone until I can get a replacement.” Killian wrestled it from his pocket, wincing, and laid it on the table for the detective to see.

“Good. We’ll call if there’s any news.” On his way to the door, Jones added over his shoulder, “Get some rest.”

But they both knew that wouldn’t happen.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Present (Tuesday, continued)...** _

“Are you lost, little one?”

Tripod froze at the sound of Master’s voice emerging from the shadows, a scrape of shifting rock among the dead silence of dusk. Master edged out of the alley as its slave fell trembling to his knees. The frightened man had never seen his Master outside the confines of the church or the short walkway to Z’s cottage, yet Master was just as surprised to find the man wandering without instructions to do so.

Cowering, unable to watch his Master draw near, Tripod struggled to speak.

“I… I was looking for something, but…”

A tentacle, dotted with pink feathers and dripping with displeased slime, curled tightly around an upper limb. Tripod sobbed a breath.

“I can’t… remember…”

He barely flinched as Master’s pincer clamped on to the back of his neck. It could feel fear, remorse, and confusion… but no threat and no wanderlust.

“Mine are not permitted free range, especially as the sun sets. You should know this by now.”

A tear dropped to the earth as Tripod nodded in chastened dread. “Yes, Master.”

“You don’t recall what it was you sought?”

“No, Master.” A sweet little hiss escaped his throat in response to more forceful pinching. “I felt compelled to come search, but…”

He trailed off and Master could feel the tremors as he suffered the instinctive but forbidden urge to fight. How it longed to draw another scream from him, a decadent treat to end this day! But the assignments were set, and it could restrain itself for the greater good.

“Perhaps my Tripod is merely eager to begin his first mission for me.”

Master knew what the man was seeking, even if prolonged pain and servitude had driven it from his mind. A parent’s deeply ingrained need to protect his offspring would never be fully erased, and there was really no harm in it as long as the man didn’t drive himself to death in futile effort. 

The sharp edges of the pincer were slick with blood, and if it pressed any harder, the damage may require further attention by Z. With reluctance, it relaxed its grip and watched the Tripod shudder.

“I… wish nothing more than to serve you,” the man replied hoarsely. “Can... may I ask, Master… what will you have me do tomorrow? What will I accomplish for your pleasure?”

The tentacle pulled him to his feet, and though he swayed, he obediently fell into step with Master, traveling in the direction of the slave barn.

“If it drives the strange compulsions from your mind and helps you to rest for tomorrow, then I will tell you.”

“Thank you, my Master.”

Tripod stumbled in the semi-darkness, and the only thing keeping him from total collapse was the tentacle encircling his arm. Master pulled roughly upward, helping him to retain his balance.

“I have marked targets for destruction; your driver will have the map. You and your fellow slaves may choose whatever method you wish, so long as you are successful.”

Tripod was breathing hard as he focused on the terrain. “I… remember. From my life before. Master… how does the vandalism benefit you?” Reacting to the tightening of the tentacle, he hastened to add, “I will gladly obey, Master; you needn’t explain your motives. I only wish to understand in order to perform my duties to the greatest effect.”

Master prodded at where it knew sloppy sutures mended the slave’s thorax beneath the sackcloth, reveling in the whining breaths and squirming that followed. “That sounds like an Exchanges question.”

“Forgive me…” the Tripod groaned. “I’ll ask… again when I’ve… earned it.”

Master trailed its claws up to the human’s shoulder, flicked through the drying blood on his neck, and stroked his newly shaved cheek. 

“Misery,” it explained. “It gives me strength to be surrounded by despair. Even beyond the borders of my compound. So by sowing destruction and pain, you increase my foothold in this land and extend my reach.”

The barn was in sight. Tripod dropped the hand clutching his tunic, saying,

“Then may I destroy more targets than you requested? Please?”

“Restrain your eagerness,” Master ordered. “The longer you remain in an area, the more likely you are to be captured by my enemies.” It pulled Tripod closer, causing him to trip over its tangle of spindly legs. “It wouldn’t do to lose my favorite Voice.”

Struggling to regain his balance and walk carefully between the churning legs, Tripod managed a breathless,

“No, Master.”

They entered the barn together, passing occupied stalls on both sides as the slaves inside cowered and groveled in their Master’s presence. When they reached the Tripod’s stall, they stopped, but the human remained at his Master's side, awaiting orders. Master removed its tentacle and gestured toward the chains. 

“Lock yourself up for the night, Tripod. I would see you secured and resting for your important day tomorrow.”

The slave staggered through straw and quickly fastened both padlocks. Master nodded at the satisfying clicks and turned to go as Tripod lowered himself stiffly to his knees. Then it paused and looked back.

Really, what would it hurt to take one more small bit of pleasure before roosting? As long as it was gentle and did no physical harm…

One more indulgence. Just in case Tripod didn’t make it back.


	10. Chapter 10

_**4 weeks, 3 days ago...** _

David pushed his way the into the sheriff station, drenched, filthy, and barely able to hold his eyes open. A long, fruitless night spent in the woods had left him sore and in low spirits. Yet again, the bloodhounds had led them in circles the whole time, seemingly unable to pick up a clear trail, even at the site of kidnapping. It may have been too long by now, and last night's rain did not do them any favors. Still, despite his physical complaints, David would still be out there were it not for the strategy meeting planned for that afternoon. Maybe Emma and Regina had made progress figuring out a method to restore their magic; David prayed that was the case. A locator spell would be invaluable right about now.

He appeared to be the first one to have arrived at the station, apart from Killian and Emma. He could hear their quiet voices emanating from their shared office as he peeled off his drenched raincoat. Though he could not make out any words, the conversation sounded civil, at least; a welcome change from the tension on display for the past several days. Probably not due to a breakthrough, or they would have contacted the overnight search party. But perhaps they had some small reason for renewed optimism.

When David rounded the corner, he caught a glimpse of the inflamed row of sutures in Killian's side just before Emma smoothed a non-stick pad over the wound. His son-in-law was leaning against a desk, shirt open, with bandage supplies nearby. As Killian reached down to hold the dressing in place, he muttered something unintelligible to Emma, who was winding a linen strip around his torso. With an audible scoff, she tightened the bandage with perhaps a bit more force than was strictly necessary, her reply to him loud in the enclosed space.

"Don't be an idiot." She twisted the ends into a knot and jerked it tight. Killian glanced at David, his expression bleak with just a hint of bitterness. Then he returned his attention to his wife, who chose to ignore the footsteps behind her.

“Swan…”

“No. Just... No.”

David cleared his throat and Emma finally turned, wearing an irritable scowl.

“Anything I can do?” offered her father. “A second opinion, maybe?”

“Nope,” Emma growled. “We're good.”

Gingerly buttoning his shirt, a sullen Killian allowed the matter to drop that that, though he obviously had much more to say on the subject. He looked just as beaten down and worn out as the rest of them, and David felt a stab of sympathy for what he must be putting himself through. The pirate kept his gaze downcast, concentrating on his task and asking,

“How did it go last night?”

David yearned to defy expectation, to give them something to be positive about. But all he could do was sigh and shake his head. “I'm really sorry, guys. No luck.”

Killian released a quiet breath, but Emma just nodded. David moved closer with the intention of drawing her into a comforting embrace. Emma, however, turned away, heading toward the main bullpen. More people were beginning to file into the building, murmuring among themselves like mourners gathered for a funeral.

Into the subdued silence that followed Emma’s departure, David gave voice to a groaning sigh as he tried to work the soreness from his neck and shoulders. He noted Killian struggling to finish the buttons, a sure sign of his equal exhaustion.

“We cannot thank you enough for your efforts in the search,” said the deputy in a somber tone. “But no one reasonably expects you to continue working yourself to the bone--”

“I have to,” David interrupted, and Killian looked up then. “I’m… I’m her grandpa…”

Killian simply stared, at a loss for words. A flash of devastation crossed his face when he noticed threatening tears in his father-in-law’s eyes. For a moment, he appeared on the verge of saying something, but then he looked away, nodded once, and returned to his fidgeting. David cleared his throat and added,

“You’d be out there too, if you could. No one doubts that.”

Killian would not meet his gaze, mumbling,

“Aye, I would.”

David glanced out at the main office, where friends and family were gathered. Emma stood slightly apart from them all, hardly acknowledging anyone unless directly addressed. Even from a room away, David could see clear signs of stress in his daughter. Not that he would expect anything else, but it still hurt to see what a toll the terrible situation was taking.

“Are… you guys--”

“We’re fine,” Killian snapped, way too quickly, and David turned back with a grimace.

“No, what I meant was… when was the last time either of you slept?”

Killian shoved the final button--fifth from the top--through its hole. “I’ve managed some, courtesy of the painkillers. As for Emma…” His eyes darted heavenward, and David wasn’t sure if he was trying to recall or simply seeking divine strength. “I couldn’t even begin to tell you, mate.”

96 hours. And counting.

Any advice that David could think of--empty words like “take care of your spouse” and “lean on each other for strength”--would only sound flippant and cold at present, so he was slightly relieved when Detective Jones approached and said,

“We’re about ready to begin, when you are.”

Killian pushed himself up off the tabletop, the grim set of his jaw more appropriate for facing a firing squad than his wife of several years. And despite David’s personal history and trust in the concept, he could not help wondering if even True Love would be enough to salvage their marriage, should the unthinkable be the final outcome.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Present (Wednesday)…** _

Out on afternoon patrol, scouring the streets for prowling slave-vandals, Detective Jones spotted the smoke at the same instant as David exclaimed,

“Over there!”

He pointed at the plume, which seemed to be rising from a farm situated just within Storybrooke’s borders, its property edged with forest. A frantic flock of birds winged their coordinated retreat in pink-tinged contrast to the billowing black smoke. Nodding, Jones flipped on his siren and light, hauling on the wheel and sending the car into a skidding right angle at the next intersection. David grabbed the radio to communicate with Emma the need for backup and a fire truck. Alert for other vehicles and stray pedestrians, Jones pushed the Chevelle to speeds bordering on reckless. If they could catch the vandals before they returned to their Master, they would provide that much more opportunity for Dr. Whale and his team to cure the ghastly ailment leading to so many deaths.

Five minutes later, the car screeched to a stop, sending gravel and dust clouds spraying in all directions. Both men leapt from the vehicle, armed with stun guns: they had yet to meet a slave that would respond to threats with a normal handgun. It was stun, wound, or kill with these guys, never surrender. Tom Swift of the Land of Untold Stories had therefore provided his expertise in perfecting electroshock cartridges that could be fired from a distance… and take care of more than one target without having to reload each time, unlike many traditional taser weapons.

Eager flames climbed one side of a barn, spreading rapidly in the early autumn drought. The thick smoke stung eyes and tickled throats, and waves of searing heat radiated even as far back as Jones’ selected parking spot. Of the perpetrators or the farm’s owners, there was no sign. The detective raised his weapon and shouted over the steady roar of the flames. 

“Cover me; I'm going to check if anyone is inside.”

David fell into step an appropriate distance behind Jones, keeping his own gun at the ready. With suitable caution, the duo jogged toward the as-yet-unaffected barn door.

Jones peered around the corner, stun gun pointing into the dark, smoke-filled interior of the building. “Police! Anyone in here?” 

His question was met with silence. Just as he was searching for a light switch, there came a warning grunt from David.

“Look out!”

The detective whirled to the quick snap of David’s stun gun discharging. A ragged group of four slaves were staggering around the opposite corner of the barn. Jones aimed at the nearest threat and fired. The skeletal man collapsed to the dirt, joining his stunned comrade. But the remaining two merely sidestepped the twitching bodies and continued their disorderly attack. A short burst of gunfire was enough to bring them to a spasmodic halt: all culprits subdued. Or so they thought. 

“Killian.”

Busy cuffing a stunned slave, Jones looked up to see David gesturing at the barn behind him. The detective glanced over his shoulder and saw what his companion wanted to warn him about: six--no, seven--slaves were stumbling around the corner toward their fallen comrades. Some carried weapons: axes, bats, even one rusted sword. Knowing that neither he nor David had enough stun projectiles to take on that many opponents, Jones drew his regular pistol and stood.

“Back to the car,” he decided. “We’ll wait for backup.”

“Stay on them; I’ve got these guys.”

Jones checked in the direction of the Chevelle. Sure enough, five more slaves guarded the vehicle in hopes of cutting off their escape route. He sighed. “Just… try not to hit the car?”

David pulled out his own gun, and both men opened fire, moving steadily toward cover. Jones aimed low, trying to cripple but not kill. He winced at the unmistakable ping of a ricochet sounding behind him. Two of the seven lay groaning in the dust; the rest marched doggedly onward. Then three more materialized from around the corner. Bloody hell; just how many were there? At least none of them seemed to have ranged weapons.

“How’s it coming, David?”

“Two more,” came the grunted reply. Another shot, and he added, “Charge him?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.” Still firing, Jones mentally counted, knowing he’d be out of bullets soon. “On three? One… two…”

“Killian?!”

David’s tone of surprise jarred the detective out of his state of concentration. He half turned, searching for a new threat. But David had not been addressing him.

His missing counterpart leaned against the Chevelle’s bumper, his expression blank. He must have been hiding behind the car and only now chose to reveal himself. Jones barely recognized him. He wore the collar and burlap of all the others, with arms, feet, and legs bare. His hair was long and wild, and he looked withered and weak. Even from 20 yards away, Jones could see the angry scars and healing injuries scrawled over his limbs and face. And what the hell had been done to his wrist? Some sort of metal handle dangled in place of the hook, apparently burrowing directly into the scarred flesh. The detective quailed at the thought. 

In his hand, Killian clutched a tarnished sword, although it currently rested point-down on the road, as if too heavy to hold aloft. He stared vacantly, eyes flicking between the two men. Jones caught a fleeting hint of what may have been recognition, but it vanished before he could be certain.

“What now?” murmured Jones, realizing that neither of them were capable of pulling the trigger on their friend. David sheathed both empty stun gun and pistol, then took a step closer, hands raised.

“It’s good to see you, buddy. We’ve been worried.”

Jones cast a wary glance toward the barn to see the remaining slaves continuing their advance with mindless dedication. He looked back just in time to see Killian push himself upright, stumble to the rear right corner of the vehicle, and drive the point of the blade into the tire. The detective hissed a curse: so much for escape.

The brief distraction gave enough coverage for the slaves behind them to begin a plodding jog forward; Jones could hear their heavy footfalls and ragged breathing growing nearer. Reluctantly, he returned to his role as rear guard, allowing David the task of confronting his son-in-law.

“Killian, stop,” David’s voice sounded between gunshots. “We’re here to help.”

Jones could tell that the prince was continuing to move toward the car, and took a few backward steps in that direction as well, but he knew he had to keep the group of slaves busy. David would be too focused on the other Killian to notice a threat from behind.

Jones felled four more assailants before his pistol clicked empty. That left four, each wielding a different weapon: an axe, a sword, a dagger... and a pitchfork, of all things. Transferring the depleted gun to his mechanical hand--it could be used as a club if nothing else--Jones fumbled for the shock prod at his side. Where was that backup?

The fastest of the slaves hurled himself at Jones, who easily stepped closer than practical for pitchfork use, then brought his weapon up under the man’s chin and activated its electricity. The thump of the twitching body was accompanied by David’s continued pleas:

“Let us take you home. Emma misses you; she’s been worried sick…”

The axe and dagger wielders arrived almost simultaneously, swinging and slashing wildly without strategy, though they did manage to come at him from opposite sides. Jones deflected the axe blow without too much difficulty, turning to use the slave’s body as a shield against the threatening dagger. But by then, the long reach of the sword had become a threat, and the detective just barely avoided a serious slice through the midsection. Desperately, he thrust the stun gun at the nearest patch of flesh and discharged. The axe wielder stiffened in his grasp and then fell, colliding with his compatriot behind.

As he faced off with the sword slave, Jones vaguely heard a scuffle near the car, stifled exclamations and grunts of exertion mimicking his own as he dodged another swipe from the blade. Clearly unused to the weapon, the slave let the swing go wide, which twisted him and put him off balance. Jones sprang forward, eager to capitalize. He shoved the prod at his opponent, depressed the switch… and nothing happened. Damn thing was out of juice.

In desperation, Jones slammed the butt of his pistol into the slave’s temple. The man staggered but did not go down. Despite his reeling, the slave had the presence of mind to switch the sword to his other hand, giving himself more maneuverability. Jones dropped the useless stun weapon and clawed for the other man’s wrist. His own arm, in turn, was quickly grasped to prevent further strikes with the pistol. 

The ensuing wrestling match did not last long: the recovered dagger slave, having disentangled himself from the stunned body of the axe slave, now stumbled into range. Jones saw him coming out of the corner of his eye and again tried to use the body of the other as a shield... except, with their current stalemate, the man was already tensed and resistant to any sort of manipulation. Jones managed to move his arm perhaps three inches. The dagger skittered along his straining forearm, scored the glove over his mechanical hand, and then sliced into the sword wielder’s bicep. The injured slave howled and released his grip on Jones’ wrist; in a flash, the detective had repeated his blow to the temple, and this time, the man did fall.

Panting, Jones snatched up the sword from the unconscious slave’s grasp: better to be armed somehow, even if he didn’t have the goal of running anyone through. He flexed his prosthesis carefully around the pistol to check for damage, feeling as he did so the burning trail along his arm left by the slashing dagger. But the hand seemed to be functioning normally.

The dagger wielder came at him with relentless determination. But even using an unfamiliar weapon, Killian Jones is a master swordsman. He easily disarmed the slave, stopped his advance with a carefully judged gash to the thigh, and then moved in to secure him. Just as he was deciding whether a knockout blow would be necessary, he heard a grunt behind him, followed by an emphatic thud: a body meeting dirt. He spun, sword at the ready.

David was down. Prone on the road, facing away, his limbs sprawled and motionless. And Killian was pulling his sword point from his father-in-law’s back.

**AN: ! ! ! ! ! ! ! If you have not seen it yet, cocohook38 / sancocnutclub on tumblr has made some FANTASTIC art for this story! There's a gorgeous movie-poster-style cover, a WONDERFUL animation and a BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY digital painting (if that's what it's called... I'm not an artist myself! lol), both based on the events of this chapter. PLEASE go check it out (search the tag vocivore Ltd)! You will be blown away! She has quite the collection of other Killian Jones fanart as well. Infinite thanks to my coconut friend!!!**


	12. Chapter 12

_**4 weeks ago...** _

“Got ‘im?”

Detective Jones tightened the second cuff around his prisoner’s wrists, grunting,

“Yep.”

David, who was keeping a tight hold on his own feebly struggling captive, took a labored step toward the patrol car. Broken glass and splintered wood crackled underfoot, a testament to the suspects’ recent activities. With the burlap-clad man in front of him finally subdued, Jones followed his friend to the vehicle, while a glaring woman watched with her arms folded. It was her shop front that had been in the process of being vandalized, and she appeared more inclined to blame the deputies for not responding quickly enough than to thank them for preventing further damage.

His charge now safely tucked into the back seat, Jones slammed the door and then promptly peeled back the sleeve covering teeth marks imprinted into the flesh above his mechanical hand. He scowled at the throbbing injury, which was courtesy of the very same prisoner he’d just arrested: the man hadn’t taken kindly to the attempts to restrain him.

David caught a glimpse of the black and purple punctures as he came around the hood. He hissed through his teeth. “Ouch. You all right?”

Nodding, Jones said,

“It’s a good thing this isn’t a zombie apocalypse, or I’d be a goner.”

David looked startled for an instant--he had yet to get used to pop culture references from this version of Killian Jones--and then laughed nervously. “As far as we know…”

Jones allowed the sleeve to fall back into place, having assured himself that the wound was not bleeding excessively.

“You should still get it looked at,” remarked David. “Human bites are nothing to trifle with.”

With a sigh, Jones started to head for the driver’s seat. “Yeah, I know.”

“You still good to drive?”

Before Jones could answer, David’s phone rang. He immediately tensed when he saw who it was.

“Emma? What’s up; is it… did you find something…?”

Both men climbed into the car, but Jones held off starting the engine as he strained to hear the other end of the conversation. Emma didn’t sound particularly excited or emotional, so likely no news on Hope.

“Got it. We’re headed there too; see you in a bit.” David ended the call, then reached for his seatbelt. “She caught a couple more slaves at the docks and is taking them to Whale.”

Jones fired up the engine and pulled onto the street. “More vandals?”

“She didn’t say.”

One week. It had been one full week since Hope’s abduction. The search parties were dwindling in both size and enthusiasm. No one would say such a thing aloud, but the majority had to be coming to one of two conclusions, neither of them good. And to make matters worse, the slave incursions were intensifying. People were starting to get hurt. 

With Emma understandably distracted and Killian still limited in his capacity for action, Detective Jones had stepped in to offer assistance, joining a reinstated David as extra deputies for a very overworked sheriff. They frequently went on patrol or responded to calls together, and already, they made an especially effective team. Part of that was due to their common goal of making things easier for two parents experiencing something that they both had reason to empathize with. But Jones also suspected that David’s relationship with the other Killian colored how he interacted with his newer friend, and it was no great effort to form a close working bond with the prince as a result.

As critical as the need to find Hope was, Jones had to admit to a certain amount of relief in dealing with other matters, such as these slave vandals. Morale could be improved significantly by having small successes unrelated to the main problem… or, perhaps, linked in a roundabout way. The part of his mind curse-trained to connect clues and pieces of assorted puzzles automatically engaged with the world around him, searching for associations.

“That’s one thing that doesn’t quite add up, for me,” admitted Jones, breaking the silence that had fallen as the occupants in the backseat recovered from the struggle. “I can understand the thefts, if this… master is running low on supplies to feed his colony. But random destruction of property? Why would he order that? What does he have to gain, as far away as his compound is?”

“Eh, maybe it’s just a side effect of the mind control. Drives ‘em crazy, makes ‘em wanna destroy stuff.”

“Could be.” Jones yielded to an elderly pedestrian waiting to cross the street, even though his arm was killing him and he wanted nothing more than to speed home to an ice pack and some aspirin. 

“What _I_ don't get,” said David, “is why he seems to target men. Have you noticed that? Like 90% of the slaves we’ve captured have been male.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s true for the makeup of his slave population as a whole. It could be that he has better control over the males, or trusts them more for his errands. Or he prefers to have the females around him, sick as that may be.”

David sighed. “I wish we had better communication with the other realms. We could go through missing persons reports and look for patterns.”

“I believe Sir Henry is coordinating that very effort,” the detective told him. “We can at least create a profile of who’s most at risk and come up with better protection measures.”

Neither of them brought up the fact that, as far as they knew, Hope was the only 3-year-old among the missing. The only child, period.

Upon reaching the hospital, Jones pulled into a spot reserved for law enforcement vehicles, just behind Emma’s yellow bug. He and David each retrieved a slave passenger, both of whom were now mumbling the familiar plea to be allowed to return to their master.

The four of them were intercepted by an orderly before they’d even stepped through the door.

“This way,” they were directed. “Dr. Whale and the sheriff are in Room 7.”

Room 7 was occupied by two more twitchy slaves in addition to Whale, Emma, and a nurse. There were also two empty wheelchairs provided for the new arrivals, and the deputies had no trouble securing them in place to await evaluation and admission. Over the low repetition of brainwashed ramblings, the physician was conferring with his nurse, while Emma kept a sharp eye out for trouble. David moved closer to her.

“Hey.” He greeted her with a quick hug, which she returned stiffly. “Anything new? As… as far as…”

Emma shook her head. She wouldn’t look at him, but they could both see the set of her jaw and the steel in her gaze as she reached up to clutch at the shell necklace she wore. David put his arm around her in what was meant to be a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry, Emma. But, listen, we’ll… I’m sure we’ll find something soon. Has Regina gotten back to you yet about that locator spell? If she was able to make it work even with the magical shield thing?”

Emma heaved a huge sigh, and Jones braced himself to hear a negative on that count. But her following statement was unexpected, and seemingly unrelated.

“Killian’s gone.”

Jones thought he detected fear, pain, and a little bit of resentment under her carefully casual tone.

“Gone where?” he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. Emma rubbed at her eyes as she struggled to hold onto her composure.

“He’s convinced the monster has her. He’s going to try and get her back.”

David paled, concern prominent on his features. “By himself? What is he thinking?”

“I don’t know! That he can trade himself, maybe? That the monster will tell him where she is so he can break her out? That he’s some damn immortal hero who can single-handedly defeat the guy we’ve been trying for weeks to get at?!” With effort, she reined in her frustration and lowered the volume of her voice. “Classic, idiotic Killian BS.”

Emma glanced brazenly at Jones, daring him to protest. Instead, he inclined his head in solemn agreement. He wasn’t denying the idiocy of the action… but neither would he condemn it or pretend not to understand. Desperation was an all-too familiar burden for him.

“We should go after him,” fidgeted David. “Maybe we could catch up before--”

“No.”

Emma’s voice was so clear and commanding that even Dr. Whale stopped what he was doing to look over at her. Tears were threatening to fall now, but she never lost her air of authority. “We could send the whole town after him, and there would still be enough slaves to fight us off. A big battle means more chance that Killian or… or Hope--” here she cleared her throat as her voice cracked--“dies. So no, we won’t be going after him. Not this time. He made his choice.”

Jones and David exchanged a look. Was this truly the same woman who had risked everything to follow her husband into the Underworld for a rescue? Gently, David began,

“Emma… you’re hurting, and we get it, but maybe we should discuss this.”

“No, Dad,” she hissed back. “No one else goes on a suicide mission. I couldn’t take it.” She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes while David ran his hand up and down her back. “Until we have a solid plan… Killian stays where he is.”

Though it obviously pained him to do so, David nodded a slow acceptance of her statement. The problem was that they were no closer to coming up with a viable plan of action, while the urgency of the situation kept escalating. Sighing, David stepped back.

“What do you need right now? How can we best help you today?”

Emma watched Dr. Whale for a long moment; he had moved on to his assessment of the second slave and seemed to have things well in hand. “I’m gonna stay here and make sure there’s no trouble getting these guys secured. Maybe you could head to the station and check for new messages, any reports or new information. And I guess call Regina for an update.”

“Done.” David turned to Jones and gestured at his wounded arm. “Come on, partner. I’ll walk you down to Urgent Care and we can call the queen while you wait.”

Emma cast a critical eye in the detective’s direction; he made a face and waved off the concern. She didn’t press for details. David drew her in for one more hug, placing a kiss on top of her head.

“We’ll be in touch.”


	13. Chapter 13

_**Present (Wednesday, continued)…** _

His partner, fallen. Stabbed. Dead? 

Chilled shock jolted through Detective Jones, stealing his air, prickling his limbs. He battled for calm as he started forward, eyes frantically searching the prince’s body for any sign of life. Slave Killian seemed frozen as well: he held his sword inches above David’s flesh, watching blood drip from its point, his eyes vacant.

And then David stirred. Just a slight twitch, the faintest of groans. Jones shuddered in relief. But the movement woke Killian, too, who inched his blade higher. It appeared as if… was he drawing back for the finishing blow?

The detective raced the final few meters, arriving just in time. Immediately after he thrust his own sword forward, the blade collided with the descending steel of Killian’s. Off-balance from the start, Jones was nearly brought to his knees by the resounding impact. But with a valiant effort, he remained upright, hanging grimly onto the handle with both hands.

“What are you doing, mate?” he gritted, arms trembling from the strain. Killian did not look at him; he gave no indication of having heard. Jones was certain he would give no response. But then Killian spoke for the first time in a low, emotionless voice.

“I’ve orders to kill him.”

Jones replied with a scornful scoff. “You picked a hell of a time to start following corrupt authority again.” He tried to steer the blade away from the fallen prince, the cut on his arm stinging fiercely as the muscle underneath bulged. Surprisingly strong for his emaciated appearance, Killian would not allow the adjustment.

“I must obey my Master.”

Though it was obvious, having the situation confirmed still sent a shudder down Jones’ spine. Killian truly had fallen victim to the killer. The torture, the brainwashing… and the fatal neurological condition that would follow. In fact, at this proximity, it would have been hard to miss the tremors, mild though they were.

Jones swallowed his emotions. Right now, what mattered was keeping David safe until help arrived. He had to delay things, draw them out as long as he could. With a big breath, he squared his shoulders.

“Your Master. Right then. Suppose you’ll be wanting to kill me too.”

As if suddenly realizing he could do it in any order, and that the finishing of David would be easier without Jones standing in the way, Killian swiveled to face his new opponent. His bloodshot eyes held no trace of fear, contrived swagger… or hope. That grim nothingness unnerved Jones more than any other expression would have. He took a step away from David, desperately straining to hear the distant wail of approaching sirens. 

“I should warn you, I’ve probably picked up a thing or two which you haven’t seen before. Lest you’ve forgotten, I do have nearly three decades on you in terms of age and experience, despite my rather dashing and youthful appearance.”

Killian did not deign to reply; Jones could not tell whether he was even listening. Wordlessly, the slave set himself for battle, and Jones followed suit, ending in a perfect mirror of pose, ready and alert.

The Killians were matched in many aspects: size, skill, strategy. Even the unfamiliar blades they both carried were an equal hindrance. But where the detective was strong and agile, the slave was hampered by injury and malnourishment. Where Killian had a sworn intent to kill, and could attack with abandon, Jones had an aversion to the same and must use caution. Still, a long, drawn-out affair would favor the stronger man, and that’s just what Jones was counting on.

He allowed Killian to make the first move, which wasn’t long in coming. A quick and recognizable series of strikes, almost a warm-up drill. The familiar clash of steel brought back harrowing memories of a life lived recklessly, of far too much pointless bloodshed and outright villainy. Jones parried easily and followed up with a sequence he knew Killian would identify just as quickly. Prolong the fight, keep everyone safe... including the brainwashed slave before him.

Jones drew first blood--quite by accident--with an old move that now ended differently, thanks to a particular incident involving another failed cure for his poisoned heart. He had completely forgotten that the technique used to conclude in another manner. Killian went to block what he was expecting, and instead ended up with a deep gash down the back of his sword arm. Mentally berating himself, Jones withdrew to allow Killian time to regroup… and found himself sporting a slash of his own, right across the ribs, as Killian lashed out in fierce retaliation. This time, the step back was for his own benefit.

Now puffing and drenched with sweat, Jones found himself on the defensive. Apparently, the successful strike had given Killian a surge of vicious energy, and Jones was hard-pressed to keep up. With the increase in speed, though, also came a noticeably worsening tremor that rattled the slave’s limbs, causing his blade to scythe erratically and become that much harder to block. Jones was cut twice more before Killian began to slow: an inconsequential stripe across his upper arm, then a deeper line of blood marring his forearm that matched the dagger wound on the other side.

Keeping his focus through the burn of his injuries, Jones patiently awaited an opening. Killian’s stamina was fading. The force of his blows weakening, his tempo slowing. Blood dripped from his elbow and flicked in all directions with the clash of swords. Jones could see other wounds oozing, reopened by the exertion. He had turned a disturbing shade of gray that contrasted sharply with the crimson marks adorning his skin. No way would he last much longer.

In the distance-- _finally_ \--came the faint and welcome wail of a siren. And then another. Their ominous melody provided a haunting soundtrack to the twin combatants as they panted and grunted their determined rhythm.

Killian stumbled. Jones went for his sword. Mechanical hand gripped twitching wrist, sword hilt hammered against weakened fingers. But with a growl that turned into a yelp, Killian swung his blunted arm at Jones’ face. The stake and ring sliced deeply into the detective’s cheek, narrowly missing the eye and releasing a torrent of blood down his face and neck. Half stunned, Jones staggered back, expecting steel through the gut at any second. But Killian had broken off as well and seemed to be hunched over his mutilated wrist.

Less than a minute. The double siren multiplied and grew louder by the second. Jones only had to hold him off for a little while longer, then fresh bodies with working weapons could contain him. Struggling past the raging pain from his face, Jones glanced over at David, who had grown frightfully still. The detective’s eyes--well, one eye, now--focused on the prince’s back… was he still breathing?

In the split second of inattention, Killian recovered enough to whirl, faster than Jones would have believed possible. The sword whipped around in an arc and crashed against Jones’, and his hurried tightening of his grip was not enough to keep hold. His blade went flying and he leapt back in desperation.

Without warning, an unexpected hand grasped his ankle. One of the stunned slaves, apparently not quite out of commission. Jones’ attempts to keep his balance were futile: shifting his center of mass did no good when the other leg was suddenly grabbed as well, yanked right out from underneath. He tried to roll as he fell, to soften his landing and protect his head. He managed the latter, but at the cost of twisting his knee and driving gravel into his elbow and torn forearm. Gasping for breath, Jones kicked out and contacted some part of the prone slave, who instantly released his ankles. But it wasn’t enough. 

As Jones scrambled to right himself, he saw two bare feet just in front of him, and the shadow of a sword darkening the ground nearby. He rolled onto his back, casting about for any inspiration, any defense, and finding none. Defeated, he looked up and met the dead eyes staring down at him. Unchanging even as the sword reached its apex. Paused. Twitched only as a result of symptomatic spasms. And flashed down again.  


*****

Jones wasn’t dead. That fact was almost as shocking as the stab wound itself. Sure, he hurt like hell, he couldn’t draw a full breath, and he may be hallucinating thunderstorms now, but it was a welcome contrast to whatever passed these days as the Underworld.

More wailing wind accompanied a frantic increase in the unnaturally rapid lightning flashes, there came another odd rattle of thunder and a gush of rain that fell nowhere near Jones’ bleeding form.

David. Dammit, David would be getting wet. Jones drew as deep a breath as he could manage, positioned both hands at his sides, and hoisted himself up with a groan. Through one bleary eye, he took in the scene of confusion, bits and pieces falling back into place as he waited. The fire. The slaves. Aid cars, firemen, the yellow Bug. David being tended: good.

Jones felt blood soaking the front of his shirt, and he placed a hand against the worst pain: the landing site of the strangely non-lethal sword point. Hearing low murmurs behind him, he winced and gingerly craned his neck until he saw the crouching form of Emma. She hovered over the still shape of her husband, wearing an anxious and sad expression. An EMT knelt nearby. As if sensing the detective’s gaze, she turned.

“Is he…” wheezed Jones.

“Unconscious,” Emma reported in an exhausted tone. “Had to tase him.” She took in the sight of his blood soaked hand, the reddened sword nearby, and asked, “You okay?”

“Significantly less dead than was my original assessment.” He stopped to catch his breath, adding, “Think I might lie back down, though.”

Another flash of worry crossed Emma’s face, but this time, she stifled it. “You do that. We’ve got things under control now.”

Jones couldn’t suppress his groan as he fell back onto his elbows, the movement and hard landing jolting though each of his wounds in scalding waves. But he bit out his foremost concern.

“Your father?”

Emma glanced David’s way. “Don’t know yet.” She sounded shaken.

“Don’t worry,” Jones grunted as he lowered himself to lie completely flat. “He’ll be irked to find he’s missed the battle’s conclusion... but he’ll get over it.”

He closed his eyes, not sure if he’d rather sleep or pass out at the moment. The adrenaline had faded, leaving behind shaky exhaustion and a full awareness of pain. He heard Emma get up, apparently satisfied with her husband’s stability and security. She took a step in his direction, hesitated, then came close and knelt beside him.

“Let me see.”

He allowed her to nudge his hand away from his sternum, and a hot lance accompanied the shifting. “Don’t suppose belief will be enough this time.”

In answer, Emma replaced his hand, holding hers on top as she flagged a passing EMT. “I don’t think it’s too serious,” she told him. “Looks like the blade bounced off your hard-ass breastbone.”

“Said with all fondness, I presume?”

“Always.”

The medic arrived and began to ask questions, and Emma made as if to get up, but Jones caught her hand.

“Hey. It’s not your fault.” He glanced briefly at Killian, who was just being lifted onto a gurney to be loaded into an ambulance. “And it’s not his, either.”

She only smiled sadly, stood, and walked away.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Present (Wednesday, continued)...** _

Storybrooke General is a far cry from the UW Medical Center. Quieter, even with the current sudden influx of patients into its modest Emergency Department. Smaller; that’s a given. About 15 fewer floors, no view of Husky Stadium or its cluster of 30-plus trumpeters having sectional rehearsal in the upper deck. 

Lower tech, too. Jones glanced idly at the folder containing scrawled notes on actual paper, thinking of the computerized system in Seattle that probably still contained “Rogers’’’ record detailing his overnight stay for an indeterminate heart issue that seemed to resolve itself, to the bafflement of his caregivers.

Yet the most crucial difference could not be credited to either facility. And even as he thought of it, proof reached his attentive ears.

“Papa?”

The word floated above the general hubbub of questions and reassurances, pained moans, and beeps and hums of machinery. But he recognized the voice easily, even in his slightly drugged state.

“Alice?”

There came the sound of metal on metal somewhere nearby, and then a surprised,

“Oh. Sorry, sorry--wrong curtain.”

With a fond smile that was somewhat lopsided by the swelling in his cheek, Jones called,

“Over here, love.”

A few seconds later, the curtain to his own little alcove fluttered tentatively, then billowed open as Alice ducked inside. She took in his condition with apprehensive eyes, inching closer, obviously restraining the urge to throw herself into his arms.

“Sheriff Emma called and said you were hurt, and I… well, I thought…”

He held out his hand and relaxed into as placid an expression as he could muster. Alice came closer and grasped it, but he could see she feared hurting him.

“I’m okay, Starfish. Just a bit sore.”

“But you’re bleeding; maybe… shall I fetch a nurse, or…?”

Jones tightened his grip, ignoring the spikes of pain from lacerated skin above shifting muscles. Emma's assessment of the stab wound in his chest had been correct: the sword point had cracked his sternum, which was the source of the most severe pain, but required little more than rest and pain medication as treatment. After imaging to rule out deeper injury, the chest laceration had been repaired; the more minor of his cuts, however, had only been temporarily covered and still needed stitching. Ruefully, he pointed out,

“So are three quarters of the other patients in here right now. I can wait.”

Alice looked like she wanted to protest, but he gave a decisive nod and pulled her closer. As she moved, the fingers of her free hand splayed of their own accord. When nothing happened, she vented a tiny groan of frustration.

“Ugh, I hate not being able to help you!”

“You _are_ helping, just by being here.” He thought once again of that lonely night in Seattle, of freshly restored memories drowned out by crippling pain in his chest, with no one there to bolster his spirits, to give him hope for any sort of future happiness. On impulse, and despite protesting muscles and painful friction on half-clotted gouges in his skin, he pulled her into a tight hug. “I will never take this for granted. Not ever.”

“So you keep saying,” she teased, but her answering embrace was just as fierce.

“I do?”

“Oh yeah. Only every time we do this?”

“Well then it must be true.” Jones allowed her to gingerly extricate herself, then he settled back with a wince. Alice perched lightly on the edge of the bed, gracing him with a watery smile.

“I, uh, heard that the other you is in pretty rough shape.” She fidgeted with the coarse cotton blanket, her eyes sad. “Is it true, then? He was slave to that… killer-monster that took Hope?”

“Aye, he was.” Jones sighed, but strove to exude confidence. “But he’s safe now; Emma won’t allow him to fall back into the killer’s clutches.”

“But…” She trailed off, though her unspoken words were not difficult to guess at. Despite Dr. Whale’s best efforts, there had yet to be a single survivor of the neurological side effects of enslavement.

“He’ll be all right,” he said firmly. In a lighter tone, he added, “We’re made of strong stuff, he and I. All tempered steel and elegance. Though we both know which of us is the handsome one.”

Alice giggled at his attempts to show off his good looks, which were more than slightly marred at present by the blood and bruised swelling all down one side.

“‘Course; no contest there.” She squeezed his hand, reveling it its warmth, its size and strength. The way he could make her feel safe even with so simple a touch. Sensing her thoughts, Jones stroked his thumb along her fingers.

“Why don’t you tell me how the preparations are coming?” he suggested. “I could do with a bit of good news at the moment.”

Just as Alice had drawn a preparatory breath, about to embark upon an enthusiastic update, a scrub-clad man ducked into the alcove, carrying a draped tray.

“Mr. Jones?” After confirmation, he continued, “Kermit here. We’re catching up out there and should be able to get you taken care of very soon.” He set his burden down on a stand and glanced at Jones’ wrists, encircling his own with finger and thumb in demonstration of what he sought.

“Ankle?” he guessed, and Jones nodded.

“The right one.”

Kermit quickly confirmed his identity via the ID band around his ankle, then announced,

“I’m just here to numb you up a little; someone else will do the actual suturing.”

“Can I stay with my papa?” asked Alice. “I promise I won’t get in the way.”

Scrubbing his hands with sanitizer before donning gloves, Kermit shrugged. “As long as your papa doesn’t mind.”

Alice turned an anxious gaze on Jones, who smiled.

“Of course you can stay, Starfish. In fact, I’d prefer it if you did.”

“I will need you to go around to the other side, though,” Kermit told her.

“Alice,” she supplied, though he hadn’t asked. “I’m Alice.”

Her introduction made, she reluctantly let go of Jones’ hand and skirted the bed. Kermit was increasing the height to give himself better access, at the same time lowering its head.

“I’ll be performing a nerve block in this arm and probably the other one, too. Basically, what that involves is putting a small amount of anesthetic into a cluster of nerves in your upper arm, here.” He tapped a spot on his own bicep in demonstration. “And that deadens sensation all the way down the forearm and into the hand. It reduces the amount of anesthetic needed for larger injuries like this.”

By this time, the bed was at its highest position. Checking to be sure she wouldn't be hurting him, Alice slid her arms around her father’s upper arm in a possessive hug, stooping to rest her head on his shoulder. Kermit lay a drape on the bed near Jones’ right ear.

“I’m going to have you raise your arm up, just like… this… hand above your head… perfect.”

Jones now had his arm resting on the drape, his shoulder at an angle greater than 90 degrees, his elbow bent, and hand up near the headboard. As Kermit disinfected the underside of his patient’s upper arm, he launched into a more thorough description of the procedure, along with risks and alternatives. Jones indicated his understanding and didn’t have any questions, so Kermit said,

“Okay, great. I’ll go ahead and numb the skin here so you won’t feel the bigger needle. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves.”

Jones turned his gaze upon Alice, who had lifted her head and was watching with a half-fascinated, half-apprehensive expression. He gave her a reassuring smile and gentle reminder.

“I believe you were about to tell me of Captain’s Smee’s Kiddie Cruise.”

Alice beamed at him. “We should call it that! I’ll have to remember that one.”

It had been her idea, after the gut-wrenching news of Hope’s disappearance. Get the rest of the vulnerables out of harm’s way, she thought, but in the least scary manner she could devise. Which turned out to be a sailing excursion on the Jolly Roger. Smee’s Jolly Roger, not the one currently berthed in Storybrooke Harbor. Although, with the rousing success of the first endeavor, the identical ship was now involved in plans for a similar voyage.

They had taken everyone down the coast, beyond the borders of the United Realms, along the shores of the Land Without Magic and, presumably, out of reach of the monster. Such a project had required a lot of careful planning, but had gone off without a hitch, and they were only back for a day or two while they restocked and recruited more families with young children.

Listening to his daughter chatter took Jones’ mind off of the mild discomfort of the procedure, the more moderate breakthrough pain of his injuries, and his fear for everyone he held dear. He felt a swell of pride as Alice recounted detailed preparations that would please even the most straight-laced captains. Of which category Smee was definitely _not_ a part.

“That’s it,” announced Kermit some time later, smoothing a Band-Aid over the puncture and completely throwing off Alice’s train of thought. “Not so bad, right?”

“No.” Jones wiggled his fingers slightly, feeling a definite muting of sensation all along the torn flesh. “And worth it, without question.”

“Glad to hear that,” replied Kermit. “Cuz we get to do it all again on the other side!”

*****

It took almost two hours to thoroughly clean and repair Jones’ wounds, and by the time that was complete, Alice had curled up in a chair nearby to doze. Apparently, her duties as event planner were taking their toll on her energy. Jones himself came close to that state on several occasions, but was always brought back to awareness by a word of instruction, a twinge in one of his wounds, or an announcement over the hospital intercom.

With the tightening of the final knot and the placement of the last bandage came the inevitable instruction to dress and make his way to the reception area for discharge. Which meant more waiting. And eventually, though Alice seemed content to sit and gossip the afternoon away, Jones encouraged her to head home and spend some alone time with Robin. After all, he was intimately acquainted with the lack of privacy aboard his beloved ship. He knew they hadn’t had the opportunity for much one-on-one interaction during the cruise.

Besides, Jones was not intending to head straight home once he was released. Too many questions remained. He needed to find out how David was faring, if Killian was all right, and what, if anything, he could do to help. It was time for a visit to the inpatient ward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **! ! ! ! ! ! ! If you have not seen it yet, cocohook38 / sancocnutclub on tumblr has made some FANTASTIC art for this story! There's a gorgeous movie-poster-style cover, a WONDERFUL animation and a BEAUTIFULLY WHUMPY digital painting (if that's what it's called... I'm not an artist myself! lol), both based on the events of the past couple of chapters. PLEASE go check it out (search the tag vocivore Ltd)! You will be blown away! She has quite the collection of other Killian Jones fanart as well.**
> 
> **Infinite thanks to my coconut friend!**
> 
> **(And... I know Hyperion Heights was supposed to be more downtown, because of the monorail track, but I wanted him to go to UW... and based on the real location of the troll, that's one of the closest hospitals. So there we go.)**


	15. Chapter 15

_**Present (Wednesday, continued)…**_

Jones got as far as the medical unit hallway, Killian’s open door in sight, before hesitating. He wanted to help, he wanted updates on his friends… but maybe his presence would be more disruptive than it was worth. Would it be too stressful for Emma to have her husband’s doppelganger nearby while she tried to process his condition? Not to mention the worry over her father and the worse, ever-present terror of missing Hope… she wouldn’t want him there, surely. She would feel remorseful, being reminded of his injuries; he should just go, and wait to be contacted with news and requests for help.

His abrupt about-face set him squarely in the path of a grim-faced Whale. With a sheepish nod of apology, Jones stepped to the side, intending to let the physician pass. But instead, Whale stopped, looking him over with a critical eye.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“Er, well, I’m not actually… I’m… I’m not _that_ Killian.” He waved in the direction of the deputy’s room and felt a vague sense of the knots holding his arm together, though the majority of the pain was still being kept in check by the nerve block.

“Obviously,” snarked Whale. “But you still look like you’re about to collapse on my linoleum. Why aren’t you down in the ED?”

“I was released,” Jones informed the self-important man. “All fixed up.”

Whale looked doubtful, but he came to the obvious conclusion regarding why the detective was here rather than on his way home. “You wanted to see Hook?”

Jones rolled his eyes and nodded. The physician pursed his lips in thought.

“I don’t know that you qualify as family, even though technically, I guess you share the same DNA…”

“I’m here more in an official capacity,” countered Jones, deciding to go in after all. He’d come this far; he wouldn’t be intimidated away by Dr. Whale.

With an annoyed shrug, the physician relented. “Whatever. Come on, then. If you do feel faint, try not to pass out near anything that might split your head open.” He pushed past and headed for Killian’s room. Jones followed cautiously.

Killian lay unconscious amidst a tangle of equipment, looking shockingly corpse-like. Blankets and bandages covered the worst of his injuries, and most of the grime had been removed, which only served to highlight the colorlessness of whatever skin remained free of cuts, abrasions, or bruising. The absence of the collar was a major improvement, but the dramatic wasting of his flesh gave the impression that he suffered a terminal illness. Technically, Jones mused, that wasn’t too far from the truth.

Emma sat beside the bed, sandwiching her husband’s skeletal hand between both of her own, simply watching the rise and fall of his chest. She tensed as the two men entered, looking immensely sad and weary. Her only acknowledgement of Jones was a brief glance in his direction, a quick sweep of her gaze assessing his well-being, and then she turned her attention back to Whale. The physician stopped at the foot of the bed while an awkward Jones hung back near the doorway.

“Still waiting for confirmation on the MRI,” Whale began without preamble. “But from my interpretation, I’d say he’s not as far gone as I had expected, given how long he’s been enslaved. Definitely some signs of deterioration, but with rest and support, he may recover on his own, or at least remain stable until we figure out an effective treatment.”

Emma looked as if she were about to say something, but Whale continued his spiel.

“As you might expect, his blood work is all over the place; lots of organs showing signs of stress. He’s anemic, which we’re obviously going to attribute to blood loss, so we’re working to correct that…”

Still feeling slightly uneasy about listening without an express invitation, Jones broke in,

“You could give him some of my blood, if that would help anything.”

He caught a small flash of gratitude from Emma before Whale fixed him with a derisive look.

“You’re not that far from needing a transfusion yourself.”

“Wake him up.”

The physician turned his startled gaze back on Emma. “What?”

“I want you to wake him up.”

Whale frowned. “That’s not a good idea. The victims that stayed sedated seemed to--”

“He might know something about Hope,” Emma stated flatly, emotions carefully under control. “Wake him up.”

Dr. Whale stared at her for a long moment, then sighed. “Be right back.”

The room fell into an uncomfortable silence in the physician's absence. Despite feeling like he might need to take a seat soon, the light-headed Jones remained where he was, watching Emma watch Killian. He drew a breath to speak, changed his mind, then changed it back.

“You okay?”

Emma nodded a lie, not looking at him. “You?”

“Fine.” He let his own falsehood stand for a beat, hesitated, then asked, “And… David? Have you heard…?”

“Looks like he’ll pull through.” Emma rubbed a hand down her face, adding, “The sword struck his shoulder blade, didn’t hit anything vital. His unconsciousness had more to do with a blow to the head.”

Jones couldn’t suppress a smile. “Lucky bastards, the both of us. I’m relieved to hear that, Emma.”

“Yeah.”

She appeared remarkably calm about everything, but Jones could make out well-hidden signs of tension and could certainly relate. He had never found it easy leaving Alice to go on supply runs, even knowing she was “safe” in her imprisoning tower. Later on, when the poison in his heart had prevented any contact, he was always worrying about her: whether she had enough to eat, whether she was sleeping all right. Whether she was truly safe from harm. Whether she’d been able to achieve some degree of happiness. But at least he’d known her whereabouts. Until she’d escaped the tower, anyway. Emma, though… to have no real clue where Hope was, how to go about getting her back, or whether she was even still _alive_ … it had to be consuming her soul, the uncertainty. And Hope so young, as well. Not old enough to fend for herself in any way. The thought chilled him to the marrow. 

Even worse was the possibility that Killian had been right, and that this nearly dead figure before them may have life-changing knowledge to impart. Jones shuddered, refusing to believe it.

“Look,” he began, “I know I’ve said this before, but… we’re going to get her back. I will do anything in my power to help. _Anything._ ” He straightened, ignoring the sharp twinge from his damaged sternum, and went unsteadily to Emma’s side. “You’re not alone in this.”

Jones placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Emma looked up with watery eyes and nodded her thanks.

How many times had he heard similar words? How long before they had started to feel like empty platitudes; something that brought more comfort to the one offering than the recipient?

From this distance, Jones could see more detail in his other self’s condition, none of it encouraging. He noticed again the missing earring, a fact that had flashed into his awareness during their earlier encounter, but at that time could not have been less important. Now he saw the reason for its absence: a dark pink line extending from the now-healed-over pierced center of the lobe to its edge, signifying traumatic removal. Three similar scars adorned the rim in various places, with the intersecting white lines left by sutures. Ouch.

Drifting past visible marks elsewhere, some freshly dressed, Jones’ gaze inevitably settled on the obscene mutilation of Killian’s blunted wrist. The closest look he’d gotten before was its explosive introduction to his cheek, which stepped up its throbbing in reaction to the memory. The limb had been carefully bandaged with enough padding to ensure everyone’s safety, but the shape of the curved handle remained visible beneath the linens. Jones cringed and felt a very real pang in his own wrist when he pictured the brutality that must have taken place.

Emma likely wouldn’t want to think or talk about it… and yet, perhaps it was better than allowing constant speculation and gruesome imaginings about her missing toddler. Jones cleared his throat, stepping back a pace to set a more comfortable distance for conversation.

“Did they, erm, say anything about…” He trailed off and waved awkwardly toward Killian’s opposite side.

“The livestock nose ring, you mean?”

Jones nodded weakly, hastening to add,

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want; I only thought--”

“It’ll need surgery to remove,” was her blunt response, void of emotion. “There’s bone shards and things to deal with. But since it’s not really causing problems right now, it isn’t urgent, so they want to wait until he’s more stable.”

Jones nodded again. Thankfully saving him from more discomfort, a nurse came in, followed by Dr. Whale. After one final look at Emma to confirm her intentions, the physician gave approval for the nurse to administer the contents of a syringe into Killian’s IV port.

“It could take a couple of minutes, or not,” warned Whale. “Just try to go easy on him; give him a little bit of time to orient himself.”

Killian’s heartbeat and respiration were already beginning to speed up a bit. Jones slipped back further out of the way in case something unexpected required the medical personnel to have quick access to their patient.

The first sign of broadening awareness was the faintest of noises deep in Killian’s throat; a question or a quiet complaint, it was hard to tell. Jones saw Emma’s hands tighten around her husband’s as she watched his gaunt face.

“Killian?” she called softly. His only response was a slight twitch, barely distinguishable from the tremors being heightened by consciousness. She tried again. “Killian, it’s me. I’m here.” Dismayed to feel him flinch and try to pull away from her grasp, she said, “You’re safe; you’re in the hospital. You’re okay.”

The raspy whine sounded again, fractionally louder this time and with a definite note of displeasure. Watching his vitals closely, Whale interjected,

“Can you hear us, Hook? Do you understand what Emma’s saying to you?”

It looked as if Killian were still trying to free his hand, a small scowl on his face, though his eyes stayed closed. Emma remained stalwart in her grip as she tried a different tack.

“I know you want to go back to sleep. But I need to talk to you first.” Her tone was gentle but solemn. “It’s important.”

Responding to an oddity on the heart monitor, Whale snaked his stethoscope beneath Killian’s gown to have a listen. Killian’s reaction was a feeble attempt to bat it away, but Emma still had a firm hold on his hand.

“Shhh, Killian, it’s okay,” she soothed. “It’s just your best friend Whale being his usual irritating self.”

If she were hoping to get a response from him--a smile, a groan, or protest--then she would have been disappointed. Killian stopped squirming and lay still. Jones began to wonder if he’d fallen back into unconsciousness. But then he spoke, his voice nothing more than a minute whisper.

“I must return.”

Emma froze, just for an instant, then schooled her features. “Screw that. You’re not going anywhere. Whale’s going to fix you up, and then--”

“My… Master…” Killian wheezed, a little bit louder this time. Squeezing his hand so hard that he winced, Emma hissed,

“Can kiss my ass. I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, going there in the first place, but I’ll be damned if I let you crawl right back into that bastard’s clutches.”

Killian had dragged his eyes open during her tirade, and now lay squinting at her, pained by the lights. With no hint of shame, remorse, or even anger at her tone of voice, he repeated his statement.

“I must return to my Master.”

Emma swore quietly and ran a shaky hand down her face. “You wanted to forget her, didn’t you? You went in case he had her. But if he didn’t, then you knew he’d suck out your brains to stop it hurting. Your… your _failure._ Is that it?”

Stunned by the vitriol in her words, Jones felt as if he should step in, say something before irreparable damage was done. But before he could devise the right words, Emma spoke again.

“Does he have her, Killian? Can you tell us _anything_ useful?”

Glancing painfully at each face in the room, expression devoid of emotion, Killian murmured,

“I… I can’t… I need…” He made as if to reach for his throat. Then he stopped, resting back on the pillow and closing his eyes in a wince. Emma growled, obviously exasperated and frantic for information about her daughter. Dr. Whale, who was making somber notations in Killian’s chart, pressed his lips together. Then he said,

“Maybe we should try again later. This is stressing him out; I don’t like it.”

“Just… give me a few minutes alone with him.” 

There was nothing ominous in the statement, but it was obviously not a request. Whale scowled, displeased at being ordered around on his own turf.

“That’s extremely ill-advised, Sheriff; too much excitement could overload his system, causing seizures and who knows what else… he needs to rest if he’s going to have any chance at getting better…”

Emma’s glare wasn’t quite enough to convince the physician, but it did shut him up. Grimacing, Jones broke in with gentle counsel.

“I hate to say it, but perhaps we should listen to Dr. Whale. You know as well as I that extracting information sometimes requires patience, no matter how urgently it’s needed.”

She seemed determined to ignore all good advice, fixing each naysayer with a glower of irritation. Turning back to Whale, she said,

“15 minutes. I’ll press the button if he starts acting weird.”

“5,” he countered. “And we wait just outside the door.”

“Yeah, like you have so much time to spare.” She rolled her eyes. “10 minutes, Detective Jones acts as door guard. If I can’t get anything by then, you can put him back to sleep for as long as you want.”

“A lot can go wrong in 10 minutes,” grumbled Whale. He cast a grumpy eye on Jones, then back to Emma. “ _Him?_ How do you know he won’t faint the minute we leave him unsupervised?”

Jones was starting to see why Killian wasn’t particularly fond of the man. Emma didn’t say anything, only crossed her arms and waited. She must have let go of Killian’s hand at some point, and he was using the newfound freedom to rub wearily at the raw skin of his bare throat. Dr. Whale heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Fine. But I have two witnesses that this is _your_ decision. Any negative outcome rests squarely on your shoulders.”

“Done.”

Dr. Whale huffed and scrawled an emphatic note in the chart, then beckoned the nurse to follow him out the door. Jones turned to join them, but hesitated.

“Maybe he should be restrained in some way…?”

Emma looked askance at him. “Really? An armed law officer vs. a bedridden model for Mr. Zombie Universe?”

Jones remained uneasy but didn’t press the issue. “Call if you need anything.”


	16. Chapter 16

_**Present (Wednesday, continued)...**_

Jones sat alone in the hospital cafeteria, nursing an overly sweet sports drink and wondering at the liveliness of the place at 3:00 in the afternoon. It wasn’t as if the population size of Storybrooke would explain it; nor would the rather pathetic selection of entrees on offer. He could only conclude that the majority of customers were family members of the slaves captured that morning, come to check on their loved ones and only now getting a chance for a lunch break. It certainly wouldn’t be the slaves themselves; Whale would have _them_ tucked away for observation and whatever experimental therapies he was devising for their life-threatening condition.

The detective was quickly discovering the inconvenience of having injuries to the undersides of both forearms. He could not rest either on the table in the normal fashion, for that placed pressure directly on the cuts. Neither could he rotate the wrist without pulling on the stitches, which were now beginning to make themselves known in a prickly, itchy sort of way as the anesthetic wore off. Jones sighed, regretting his decision to postpone the pickup of his prescriptions from the pharmacy. The sudden, fierce ache in his chest added another check to the “Pick Up Now” column. He glanced irritably at his phone lying on the table next to his drink. He had wanted it easily accessible in case Emma called, but it had been at least half an hour since she’d dismissed him, and nothing.

When he looked up, he was startled to see David coming through the door, flanked by his wife and son and looking a bit worse for wear. But he had new clothes on and one arm in a sling; it appeared as if he’d been released to go home. As Snow and Neal headed into line, Jones caught David’s eye with a comradely nod, and the prince smiled wearily and headed in his direction.

“Mind a little company?” asked David as he neared. Jones gave him a lopsided grin and shook his head.

“Be my guest.” He waved at the three empty seats, and David lowered himself carefully into the one across from him. David let out a low, rueful groan, adjusted his sling arm, and winced; Jones’ own injuries twinged in sympathy. “I’m relieved to see you traveling under your own power, mate.”

“Same,” said David, a little sheepishly. “Sorry for leaving you to fend for yourself back there.”

“Not your fault,” Jones assured him. “Who’d have guessed it would take a whole score of slaves to commit simple arson?”

Snow White appeared around the corner and hurried over with a bottle of juice and a package of cookies. She gave a hasty but kind greeting to Jones as she unscrewed the lid, then set both items in front of her husband, saying,

“I’d better go make sure Neal isn’t trying to order one of every dessert in there.” 

She dashed off. David took a swig of juice and gestured at the cookies.

“Help yourself; it’s all that sounded good to me at the moment.”

“Standard blood donor fare?” Jones suggested, and David laughed.

“Maybe that’s it.” He picked up the cookies, carefully brought the packaging to his immobilized arm, and pulled lightly. The effort’s only accomplishment was to bring a pronounced grimace of pain to his face, and he immediately gave up. Jones leaned in slightly, impish grin in place.

“May I make a suggestion?”

“I’m not sure a hospital’s the best place to look for a hook lying around,” David teased, though the detective could still see lines of pain around his eyes. 

“Think simpler, mate.” Jones reached for the package, wincing a little himself as his sternum spasmed a sullen protest. He pulled the cookies closer, flashed a wink, and said simply, “Teeth.”

Deftly, he gripped the plastic with his incisors and tore it open, managing not to dump the contents all over himself. Then he returned the snack to his friend. David smiled wryly and accepted, grumbling,

“Good thing I’ve just been dosed with antibiotics. Protection against pirate slobber.”

“No need to worry, David: I’ve hardly kissed anyone today.”

The friendly banter was helping to take both of their minds off of their pain, the stress of the morning, and their worries, at least for a short moment. But the mood was all too fleeting, and as Jones glanced again at his phone, David must have sensed his mild concern.

“You, uh… heard anything about Killian?”

The detective quickly filled him in on the current situation, concluding with his intention to call Emma if he hadn't heard from her within the next few minutes. David nodded his approval. He swallowed a mouthful of cookie, looking thoughtful, then said,

“I kinda don’t know what to think.”

“About what?”

“Well… him. He’s gotta be pretty badly brainwashed if he isn’t immediately giving up intel on Hope, but… if he _is…_ ”

“Then why aren’t either of us dead?” Jones finished the thought. “I’ve been wondering the same.”

“I mean, you know how he thinks, how he fights… is it possible he missed both times? Or was too weak to finish us off?”

Jones considered this as if he hadn’t been mulling it over for hours already. “I… suppose it's possible, yeah. With the neurological symptoms especially.”

David seemed to find that answer satisfactory and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Guess we should just be grateful, then.”

But Jones remained uneasy. There were a hundred ways to kill a man, and he knew them all. Many did not require much power or finesse. Yet Killian had aimed for places almost guaranteed to be survivable.

Head suddenly spinning, Jones rubbed at his eyes, careful not to brush against the impressive swelling on his cheek. His bed sounded irresistibly appealing at that moment. As Snow and Neal made their way to the table, both carrying trays laden with mediocre food, Jones reached for his phone. To the backdrop of Neal’s incessant chatter, he dialed Emma, wearing a politely distant smile. 

“She’s not picking up,” he finally reported. “Could be she’s fallen asleep as well.”

He gritted his teeth and stood, stiff muscles and sore places hampering easy movement. “I’ll go check on them; she’ll likely be peeved if she sleeps through the only opportunity she has of speaking to him.”

“Let us know how it goes,” David requested.

“Aye, of course. Enjoy your meal.”

“Later, Killian!” chirped Neal, and Jones gave a stiff wave farewell.

“Alice is looking forward to having you aboard the next cruise, lad. She says it’s been exceedingly helpful to have a proper junior crewman along.”

Neal bounced in his seat, excited at the reminder, and Jones smiled fondly. With a nod, he retrieved his sugar water and set off toward his counterpart’s room.

*****

Emma was sleeping, all right. 

In Killian’s bed. 

With his equipment attached to her, and no sign of him anywhere in the vicinity.

Momentarily stunned by the sight, Jones shook himself and strode to the bed, calling,

“Emma? Are you all right?”

The sheriff stirred slightly at the sound of her name. Not quite sure what had taken place, Jones opted for caution and pressed the nurse call button as he searched her face and arms for any sign of trauma. “Emma?”

Emma groaned quietly and reached for her face. She pulled a deep, slow breath, groggy and disoriented. With a grunt, she rubbed her eyes open. They fixed on Jones and immediately filled with confusion. “Killian? What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

She struggled to her elbows and winced. Jones put a hand on her shoulder.

“Take it slow.”

Emma glanced down at the EKG leads snaking beneath her shirt, at first with massive confusion. But then something clicked, and she sat bolt upright, cursing. Jones took a step back at her vehemence. She wasted no time tearing the sensors off, which set the machines to aggravating beeps of warning.

“Emma, where’s Killian? Did he…?”

He honestly did not need to ask. It was fairly obvious: ground floor private room, easy access to the window, and his unconscious wife left in his place. Still, it seemed an unbelievable circumstance.

A nurse came trotting in, but stopped dead in her tracks as she tried to reconcile the confusing scene. Frustrated and frantic, Emma tore the blood pressure cuff from her arm and practically spiked it into the mattress beside her.

“Uh… Mr. Jones?” inquired the nurse, but the wrong Jones ignored her. Emma had swung her legs over the edge of the bed, evidently about to race off to do gods-knew-what in order to retrieve her wayward husband.

“Were you struck on the head?” Jones asked bluntly, moving to prevent her standing up. “Maybe you should--”

“I’m fine,” snapped Emma. “Get out of my way.”

Without waiting, she surged to her feet, and Jones had to scramble backwards to avoid a collision. Emma pushed past the bemused nurse on her way to the window, swearing the whole way there.

“What’s going on here?” demanded the nurse. “What was she doing in your bed? And what are _you_ doing out of it?”

Jones sighed and prepared to explain himself again, but Emma beat him to it. She turned from the window.

“ _He’s_ not my husband. My husband’s gone, dammit.”

“He’s… gone? You… think he went out the window?” The nurse was clearly considering whether to call Security, Dr. Whale, or both.

“He’s gone,” confirmed Emma. Without further ado, she slid the window open and prepared to hurtle through.

“Ma’am, I can’t let you--”

Emma flashed her badge at the nurse, who blinked once and changed her tune. Slightly.

“Sheriff, I can’t let you--”

Jones moved toward the window, adding his own protests to the nurse’s. “Emma, wait; let’s call Henry, or Regina, or--”

Halfway outside, Emma fixed them both with such a dangerous look that they froze in mid-sentence. “I’m going after him. Go home, Jones. You can’t help me right now.”

She wriggled easily the rest of the way through, dropped to the ground into some bushes, and was gone. Jones sighed, reaching for his phone. She didn’t expressly _forbid_ him to call for backup…

Still quite nonplussed, the nurse turned back to Jones, taking in his clothed state but also his readily apparent injures. She frowned at him.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not Killian Jones?”


	17. Chapter 17

_**Present (Thursday)…** _

Many years ago, before swearing off alcohol for good, Jones had once gotten so drunk that he’d slipped on a steep trail to the beach and slid the rest of the way down, tumbling and bouncing nearly 12 meters before landing among the rocks below. Waking from that little mishap probably had the edge over how he was feeling this morning… but not by much.

“Papa?”

Jones gritted his teeth, knowing that shifting positions on the couch would drive a stake straight through his chest and out the other side, as it had done all night long.

“Sorry to wake you,” murmured Alice from somewhere nearby. “We’re off, though, and I wanted…”

She broke off, and Jones dragged one bleary eye open to see the anxiety on her face as she glanced at Robin. “Do you think I should stay?”

“No,” grunted her father. He considered trying to sit up but knew he’d probably only manage to compound Alice’s worry. “Cap’n Smee needs you as rascal wrangler.”

Even clearing his gravelly throat felt like someone stabbing him with an electric screwdriver. Squinting in the direction of the coffee table, Jones was met with the sight of his water glass moving toward his face. Alice held the straw as she offered it to him.

“Postpone, then. We could call everyone. Tell them we need another day to prepare.”

“Please, love,” he wheezed. “Don’t endanger them on my account.”

Jones was mostly successful at hiding a wince as he took the water glass from his daughter. She bit her lip but seemed to concede the point. From the table behind her, Alice produced a pill organizer, saying,

“I saw how hard it is for you to open your medicine bottles, so we thought this would be helpful.” She shook it and the resulting rattle made her grin. “All set up for you, see? It’s even got a divider for morning and night.”

She held it out for him, and after securing the water at his side, Jones gingerly accepted.

“Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”

Alice beamed at him, glanced at the clock, then said,

“Suppose it’s about time for your next dose; want to see if you can get it open?”

Jones humored her and pressed the tab that popped the _Thursday, AM_ lid, but said,

“I should probably wait until I’ve had some breakfast.”

“Oh yes! Well, there’s porridge, or maybe you’d like some toast…”

“Later,” he said. “I promise you I can still operate a toaster.”

Robin moved closer then, clutching an ice pack. “Aunt Regina said to tell you that if you need anything, to just call and she’ll be right over.”

“Thank you.” He rested the pill box on his abdomen, slowly reached up, and took the ice from his daughter-in-law. Very carefully, he held it against his swollen cheek, which had nearly obstructed the vision in that eye and was currently throbbing at jig tempo. “I wouldn’t want to pull her from the search, though.”

Robin and Alice exchanged a glance.

“Oh,” said Robin. “I guess no one told you. They found Emma’s car last night.”

“Car?” repeated Jones, thoroughly confused. “Found it where?”

“At the edge of town,” Alice sighed. “Near the monster's territory; no surprise there.”

Quietly, Robin added,

“It seems Killian took Emma’s keys when he left the hospital.”

“Then what the bloody hell were we doing scouring the streets of Storybrooke all afternoon?” Jones glanced around in search of his phone, then realized he had left it plugged in on the kitchen counter. If he’d gotten any messages about the situation, he may not have heard them.

“Apparently, she didn’t notice,” said Robin.

“She _is_ a bit preoccupied,” Alice added, her eyes sad.

“Anyway, this all went down after my aunt dragged your sorry butt back here, but once the car was found, Emma basically just called off the search. No point now; he’s back out of reach again.”

Jones just stared at Robin for a moment, bewildered by this turn of events. True, Emma had been emotional and likely not thinking clearly when she’d leapt through the hospital window in pursuit of her husband. She may have even been dealing with the aftereffects of being knocked unconscious--though she wouldn’t admit it--so it was understandable for her to have overlooked her missing keys. For a little while, anyway. But after hours and hours on foot… wouldn’t the idea of driving as an easier alternative have crossed her mind at least once? She didn’t realize then that the keys were gone?

And then, upon finding the car, to give up immediately? It all seemed very strange to Detective Jones. He’d come to know Emma rather well in the past three years, and she wasn’t the sort to be so easily beaten. Was it possible that the loss of her daughter, and then her husband, had changed her so much?

Or could the monster's influence be tainting her actions somehow?

A chime sounded from Robin’s phone. She checked the screen with a grimace. “We’d better go. We’re already late.”

Alice made a small whine of distress and threw herself down on her knees beside her father. “You’ll be okay, won't you? You won’t get taken over by the mind control too?” She reached for his hand. “Maybe you could come with us on the cruise! We packed some extra supplies, and I have experience going hungry if it comes to that…”

Painfully, Jones gripped her hand and brought it to his cheek in as much of a hug as he could manage. “Don’t worry about me, Starfish. I’m in no danger lying here on this bloody couch.” He placed a kiss on her knuckles, released her hand, then reached up to caress her face. “I’m sure we’ll have a breakthrough soon. Someone will find a solution and then everyone can come home, safe and sound.”

Alice sniffled and then smiled bravely. “We all have our roles to play, yes? Mine and Robin’s is to help with the kids, and _yours_ … is to stay right here on this couch for the next month until you’re all healed up.”

She patted the cushion for emphasis, and Jones nodded ruefully.

“You are absolutely correct.”

Uncertainty crossed Alice’s face as a gathering cloud. “And where does the worry fit in?”

“Worry has its role too,” he admitted. “It’s an unavoidable part of love.”

Alice gently rested her head on his shoulder. “I’ll miss you, Papa.”

“Likewise. Be careful out there.”

“We will. Maybe our phones will work this time. Or in an emergency, we have that radio gadget on board.”

“Good. Speaking of phones, would you mind fetching mine here?”

Alice jumped to her feet, but Robin was already on it. She lay the device on the coffee table, reached down for a farewell squeeze of Jones’ hand, then headed for the door.

“I’m gonna go start the car. Feel better soon, Pops.”

After taking one reluctant step in that direction, Alice returned to her father’s side for one more gentle hug goodbye.

“I love you, Starfish.”

“I love you, Papa.”

Eventually, Alice gathered enough courage to scamper out the door, leaving Jones alone with his thoughts and his pain. 

Holding the ice pack in place, he growled and snatched the phone off the table. Regina _had_ texted him the developments, including a photo of the yellow Bug on the side of the road. The car’s passenger side bore minor scratches from the tree against which it had come to rest. From its reported position, Jones calculated the distance to the boundary at which guard slaves would start to appear: approximately a four-hour walk for someone in perfect health. If Emma had not inexplicably called off the search, they may have had enough time to catch up to a slowly moving Killian before he reached it, depending on when the car had been discovered.

But now? Twelve hours later? Jones had a fairly good idea of Killian’s whereabouts.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Master rarely ventured forth from its compound. There was little need, as it had everything required for survival: its slaves, its Voices, eyes and ears to the surrounding kingdoms. Every requirement, every desire easily fulfilled by a simple directive to one of its limitless supply of minions eager to comply.  
  
It wasn't that Master would be in any danger. It knew all. It could sense approaches. Any remote threat would quickly be extinguished by some of its more expendable slaves long before coming anywhere near Master’s location. So its reclusive nature had more to do with conserving energy.  
  
But this day, Master had a craving. Easily satisfied, and soon, yet the object of that craving seemed hesitant to appear. Despite the sense of lethargy pinpointing his location, Master was in no mood to be merciful. Patience was a virtue not commonly practiced by the monster. It saw no reason to begin now.

Six crustacean legs picked their way through rotting leaves and bone dry pine needles, sometimes sinking deep into the spongy earth, yet never causing a stumble or slowing of pace. In fact, the dozen barefoot slaves accompanying their Master had much more trouble in that regard. Their frequent tumbles to the forest floor mingled with early morning birdsong to provide a jarring marching cadence for the trek. Fixated on the presence hidden somewhere nearby, Master ignored the ruckus. Soon. Soon it would be sated.

An unremarkable brush pile called out to Master, a mess of pine boughs and withered leaves gathered at the base of a tree a hundred paces ahead. Any other being may have overlooked it as a natural occurrence. But outward appearances could not deceive Master’s focused mind. He was under there, the prize, his flavor sharpening with increasing proximity. Master’s spindly legs quickened as its whole being pulsed with need. Its contingent of followers were hard-pressed to keep up. One by one, they dropped back until their Master had a sizeable lead.

The crab-like creature could build up to an impressive velocity with proper motivation. Top speeds required a 90-degree rotation for sideways travel, which Master normally found to be quite undignified. But this close to its quarry, dignity took lowest priority. Master's leading set of legs plowed into the brush pile like a tsunami, sending sticks, leaves, and soil exploding in all directions. The tree trunk was the only thing halting the creature's forward momentum; without its presence, Master would likely have skidded several yards beyond its target and been required to backtrack. As soon as it centered its balance over the pile, its hands, claws, and tentacles were tearing violently at the brush.

The pile stirred. Not only from Master’s frantic digging, but underneath. A flash of skin, the slightest hint of faded gray and blue. Then there came a faint groan. Hearing that Voice again, even on the very edges of perception, sent a quiver of ecstasy to the center of Master’s being. It was not enough; not loud enough, not strong enough. Not _soon_ enough. Master’s indiscriminate pincer dove to the very depths of the pile and clamped with the force of a crocodile’s snapping jaws. Chitin grated against bone, warm, sticky blood drizzled onto leaf litter. Debris shifted, feeble grunts tickled Master’s core with delight, but did not satisfy.

In frustration, Master shifted its claw, altering the angle until a second deep laceration intersected the first.

“Come awake, my Tripod,” hissed the creature as it continued brushing all cover from the battered body beneath. Hopelessly squirming against the vice mauling his left ankle, Tripod finally emerged from the makeshift nest, trying and failing to roll onto his back. The iron grip on his lower leg kept him firmly on his side. He sounded dazed as he breathed a tearful,

“Master…”

“My faithful one,” cooed a charmed Master, its pride over Tripod’s fortitude momentarily overcoming the yearning. “I watched them take you and despaired of your return.” Master yanked on the captive limb and reveled in the catch in Tripod’s breath. “None emerge from that place except as a corpse.”

A tentacle brushed stray soil from the patterned fabric riding high on one discolored hip.

“Did my Tripod miss me as thoroughly as I have missed him?”

It did not fail to notice Tripod’s efforts to pull away from the serpentine tentacle. And that was okay; even the most faithful avoided its touch while simultaneously surrendering their bodies and Voices to their Master’s benefit. The tentacle inched higher, the pincer ground against bone, and Tripod struggled for breath.

“Master,” he whispered, “please…”

Sharp armor slipped on blood, rending more flesh from bone. The slave voiced a feeble yelp and curled toward the mangled limb, but other, older injuries restricted his movement.

“You know what it is I require.”

Another tear slipped from Tripod’s eye as he nodded. Shuddering, the slave shifted his weight, trying to relieve the pressure on his joints. 

“Not... Not here. Please,” he begged. The pincer tightened in displeasure; any harder and it might sever the foot entirely. Master’s tentacle slithered onward as it contemplated. Had the days of freedom somehow dulled this slave’s loyalty? Tripod whimpered, his hand balled into a tight fist.

“I may not make it back,” winced Tripod, and Master’s grip relaxed fractionally. Thinking practically, that was all. Good boy.

“No need to concern yourself.” Master stroked him. He groaned. “Your Master will carry you.”

Need swelled within. A delicate claw slipped beneath a silken thread placed into skin much more precisely than any Z could have mustered. In a concerning show of resistance, Tripod wriggled his arm out from underneath himself and reached up as if to shove away his Master’s hand. The attempt was easily overcome by a savage pinch to the wrist, drawing blood and a helpless whine. A mere appetizer. Not nearly enough. Master tore the first suture free, growling,

“Give yourself, Tripod. I must feed.”

Overall, Master had no cause for worry. Tripod had returned on his own, and even if his time among friends had temporarily weakened his loyalty, it would not take long to retrain him. The pincer shifted again, adding additional stripes to the flayed skin of Tripod’s ankle, and the monster shivered a satisfied smile at its slave’s reaction. 

The favorite was back. And Master knew exactly how to make him scream.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Present (Friday)…**_

Detective Jones climbed out of his car, grimacing as he pressed a hand to the bandage on his chest. A deep ache accompanied each movement and prevented full breaths, his twisted knee protested every single step, and Alice would have been exasperated beyond measure to find out he’d gotten up so soon. But Jones couldn’t remain still. Especially now that he’d encountered his double and seen the hopeless look in his eyes. He’d been there. Almost didn’t come out the other side. And he wasn’t going to let a small amount of pain keep him sidelined; not when his friends were so desperate for help.

Jones gingerly adjusted his grip on the file folder he held, then slowly ascended the stairs. He hadn't told Emma he was coming, but he figured she would probably appreciate the company, even unannounced. Besides, operating his phone with sore arms was more trouble than it was worth. 

Though he didn’t want to admit it to himself, a small part of him also yearned for an explanation of the sheriff’s strange behavior recently, and a surprise visit meant she would have less time for preparation of any kind. Damn it, sometimes he hated the instincts that were leaning toward suspicion now. He wished he could take things at face value for once. 

Nearing the door, the detective paused. He thought he’d heard laughter, a child’s voice. Inside the house? But the sound did not repeat. He pressed the doorbell and stepped back to wait.

It took a while for a response; long enough that Jones considered ringing again. But then Emma called out,

“Coming.”

The thud of footsteps, a creak of boards beneath her feet, and then she was pulling the door open.

“Killian.”

She sounded startled, almost… guilty. Wearing casual clothes and a messy ponytail, she clearly wasn’t planning on going out anytime soon. Jones nodded a greeting.

“Sorry to drop in unannounced.” He flashed a polite smile, trying to project sympathy and support. “I thought we could look over the photos again, maybe come up with another solution, one we haven’t thought of…?”

“Uh…” Emma’s face showed a trace of reluctance, then cleared. “Yeah, that would be great. Help me feel like I was doing something.” She opened the door wider, but before moving aside, she raked him with an assessing glare. “Sure you’re up to it?”

“Aye, of course.”

Emma rolled her eyes at him; her husband had obviously demonstrated their shared brand of stubbornness and impatience with recovery time, and she knew not to believe a word. But she allowed him entrance. 

Jones made for the dining room table. “Sorry we weren’t able to catch up with Killian.”

A pang of... _something_... crossed her expression. “Yeah. I thought for sure he would have collapsed somewhere near the hospital; didn’t even begin to imagine he’d steal my car. Guess the monster’s brainwashing is too irresistible.”

“So it would seem.” Jones tossed the packet of files on the table and then wheezed into a seat, unable to hide a grimace.

“Need water? Or an ice pack?”

Jones shook his head and motioned for her to join him, which she obeyed with only slight hesitation. She looked remarkably chipper, thought Jones. Still stressed, of course. But the dark shadows under her eyes had lessened, and she met his gaze with an alert expression. The detective decided to indulge his curiosity, asking,

“Were you on the phone when I came?”

Guilt. Definitely fleeting guilt on her face. Jones couldn’t fathom what it was she had to feel guilty about. She quickly hid it, waving her hand vaguely.

“Musta been the TV. I turned it off just before answering the door.” She reached for the files and started pulling out photographs, maps, and witness statements. Jones simply watched her, lost in contemplation. Finally, Emma noticed and looked up at him. “What?”

“You tell me,” shrugged Jones.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He tilted his head, still studying her body language. Familiar with the tactic, she stared back brazenly, expression blank. Finally Jones sighed and then winced.

“I’m sorry, Emma, but… I get the feeling there’s something you’re hiding.”

She was back in careful control now, the new and familiar facade of desolation firmly in place. “Why the hell would I do something like that?”

Carefully, Jones replied,

“I can think of a few reasons. Emma… are you being coerced?”

Emma’s silence gave him nothing. He continued.

“Hope. Do you know something; did Killian tell--”

“Really?” she snapped. “You think that, if I knew _anything_ to help Hope, I would hide it?”

For several heartbeats, Jones felt chagrined. How could he think such a thing? Of course she wouldn’t. He understood the desperation, and the utter relief of having allies, and how could he think that she would somehow reject that?

And yet…

She fit the part. Said all the right things, acted as one would expect. But Jones could not deny a nagging sense of discord. Something that didn’t quite fit, that struck him as odd. And now that he thought about it, he could trace the feeling back to the beginning.

Implanted or not, his detective instincts would not let him ignore it.

“I’m only trying to help.” He leaned closer, imploring her to respond. “You know me; you can _trust_ me. Even if it’s just confirmation that the monster has her, we can work with that. It’s _something,_ which is a hell of a lot better than we’ve had all month. Please, love. Please tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything, okay?!” Her tone was icy, and she looked to be on the verge of dragging him out by the ear. “Could we please just get to work on this?”

Jones sat quietly, allowing his frustration to simmer and then drain away. He watched Emma as she flipped through the scouting photos, but she acted as if she wasn't really seeing them. His eyes fell on the shell hanging from a cord around her neck: pearly pink on the inside, mottled brown and ivory striping along its smooth exterior, and about the size of a golf ball.

“Lovely necklace.”

Emma immediately reached up to clasp the shell in hand, as if attempting to hide it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Fairly new, isn’t it?”

She shrugged. “I’ve had it awhile, actually.”

“Have you? Funny; I don’t recall ever seeing it before all of this started. And now… if I’m not mistaken, you haven’t taken it off since Hope’s disappearance. Why is that?”

Emma glowered at him. “She... Hope ‘gave’ it to me. It helps me feel close to her.” She swiped at her eyes. “Is that what you wanna hear?”

The detective watched her, working his jaw slowly and praying that he wasn’t burning bridges here. It sounded quite plausible, and there was real emotion behind her words. It may be that she was telling the truth… but maybe not quite the _whole_ truth. Jones drew a painful breath.

“I believe you. I do. But I have to tell you, I became fairly close to Ariel in my quest to free Alice, and so I’ve learned to recognize mermaid magic when I see it. And I’ll be damned if that isn’t a miniature shell phone you have there.”

The small flicker of surprise did not go unnoticed, and it was more than enough confirmation for him. Emma continued to grip the necklace but set down the pictures and leaned back in her chair. Jones gave her a quick, humorless smile, asking,

“Who’s on the other end?”

Emma shot him an annoyed scowl, obviously concocting more clever half-truths and evasive statements. But then she paused, sighed, and rubbed her eyes, and it was as if her whole body wilted in surrender. Jones waited patiently, not giving her an easy out. Finally, she said,

“Dammit, Killian; we should have known you would…” She trailed off, then huffed a rueful laugh. He raised his uninjured eyebrow. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a hell of a detective?”

Jones’ only response was a modest little smile, and Emma sobered.

“You can’t tell. Promise me you won’t tell them.”

Uneasy, Jones shook his head. “Tell who?”

“Everyone. Anyone. You have to swear to keep this between you and me.”

“Emma, I can’t--”

“ _Swear it,_ ” she hissed, so vehemently that he straightened in surprise. With a sigh, knowing he would likely regret the vow, he nevertheless yielded.

“Okay. All right. You have my word.”

A beat of silence. Then another. Emma seemed to be struggling with phrasing. Finally:

“Hope’s not missing. She’s fine. She’s safe.”

Jones blinked at her. The usual resulting pain in his swollen cheekbone was briefly muted by startled disbelief. “She’s… I’m sorry, I don’t…”

With a watery smile--peace in the knowledge of her daughter’s safety, with maybe a hint of solace in the unburdening of her soul--Emma confirmed,

“She’s fine. Has been all along. The kidnapping thing… we made it all up.” She winced then, looking sheepish. “Sorry.”

Equal measures of relief, confusion, and anger were beginning to color his shock. Jones started to cross his arms, then thought better of it. Instead, he fidgeted with the new gouge in his mechanical hand. A million questions jumbled his mind, but he gave voice to the one addressing his foremost concern.

“Then where the bloody hell is she?”

“With Belle. We met up with them in a separate realm that’s not part of the United Realms; she’s probably a whole lot safer there than we are, with this frickin’ monster situation here. Time runs much slower there, so it’s only been, like, ten hours for them, and you were right about the shell phone: I’ve been keeping in touch with her as much as I can. I was just talking to her when you came.”

Emma seemed to realize then that she was rambling nervously, and she shut her mouth. Jones was tense as he watched her and tried not to let the sting of betrayal cloud rational thought. He forced a calming breath.

“Who else knows?”

“Me and Killian; that’s it. And it _has_ to stay that way.”

As the detective rubbed gingerly at his jaw and mouth, striving to stifle the hurt, echoes of the past month chased themselves around his mind. The times he’d empathized with both parents, seeing himself in their haunted expressions. Every flashback to his own separation from Alice and the inevitable pain dredged by the memories. Not only that, but the very real fear he’d felt for the innocent 3-year-old. All of the sleepless nights, going through scanty leads over and over again to keep the helplessness and frustration from overwhelming him. There’d been nightmares, difficulties in concentration, even a few tears. And all of it… in response to a cruel lie?

“How?” he finally croaked. “Your family, your friends… how could you put them through this hell?”

Emma looked away, chastened but with a spark of defiance on her face. “We had to. It was our best chance to take that bastard down. Still is… I hope.”

“But… Emma, your parents… Henry... Neal. They’re all sick with worry; you can’t--”

“They have to be!” True anguish tinged her voice; it sounded as if she teetered on the verge of sobs. “The whole plan… Killian’s _life_ depends on it!”

Jones forced slow breaths that helped to purge his heightened emotions. Hurt and anger would be of no use in this situation; he needed level-headed calm. The last exhalation whistled through his nose in a long, careful sigh as he sat back in his chair and settled into a less confrontational position.

“Okay. Why don’t you tell me the whole story, because I sure as hell don’t agree or understand, not yet. But… I want to.”

In response to his change in tone and body language, Emma relaxed a bit too, resting folded hands on the tabletop and searching them for the best place to start. 

“Thank you. I get it; you have every right to be pissed. But I wouldn’t do anything differently. And… I’m only telling you all of this because… I don’t think Killian believes he’s coming back.”


	19. Chapter 19

_**One day ago (Thursday)...** _

Z was dead. 

Staggering into her hovel after an excruciating trip back in his Master’s arms, half-dead himself and bleary with anguish, Killian didn’t realize it at first. He made it to the butcher’s table and was gathering the strength to heave himself up before glancing over to where she sat slumped in a chair in the corner. Her eyes were open but blank, her head nestled against the seat back and the wall. As always, no injury adorned her body, but Killian knew that wouldn’t have been her cause of death. She would have succumbed to whatever neurological draining power the Master possessed which affected all of its slaves. 

Killian couldn’t even summon the will to feel sorry for her, or honestly, even to be grateful for her efforts which had kept him alive this long. Perhaps when this whole thing was over--if, by some miracle, he lived long enough--he might look back and honor her memory. But at present, his only concern was how he could possibly survive to enact his plan without her brutal but necessary treatment.

In the few seconds it took for all of this to flash through his brain, a noticeable slick of blood had gathered on both sides of his mangled ankle, adding scarlet ribbons to the rusty brown already painting the stone floor. Stop the bleeding. That was the priority. He had access to her tools and knowledge of what to do; he’d even had some experience in his long and violent history. The question was, could he remain conscious long enough to get the job done?

Killian realized he was staring vacantly back at Z’s corpse, as if expecting her to rise from her chair and spare him the necessity of self-torture. But she remained still and silent. So he dragged in a labored breath, set his jaw, and limped drunkenly toward her row of yellow cabinets.

In previous encounters, he had generally been too involved with flopping up onto the table to notice her system of organization, and in any case, she’d usually had things mostly prepared before his arrival. This time, her tray was empty save for the dreaded disinfectant bottle and a tub of iodine, which may or may not hide a submerged selection of needles.

The first cabinet that caught Killian’s fall contained more than a hundred plastic pouches of saline. Nearly a score of them hung from hooks at the top, labeled and out of their original packaging, with pre-filled tubing already attached. Several large boxes were stacked at the bottom of the cabinet, containing still-sealed bags of the same. Killian made a face, but then changed his mind about dismissing the possibility outright. There was no doubt that the extra fluids had prolonged his existence thus far, and he had come to believe that Z had been adding additional medications, such as antibiotics; otherwise, he very likely would have succumbed to infection long since. 

One of the prepared bags caught his eye. In addition to the sticker label that had illegible names and dosages scribbled on it, there was a large number **"3"** drawn in black marker. **"3"** for Tripod? Killian tried to recall whether he had noticed that label on the previous IV bags Z had used on him, but he had always been too distracted with pain to be certain. Other bags were labeled with other letters, numbers, or symbols, and from his quick survey **"3"** made the most sense. So he snatched the bag off of its hook and tucked it under his left arm. He had certainly watched the process enough times; surely he could replicate it on himself?

The next cabinet contained additional sackcloth tunics, as well as wadded-up bandages. His nudity was the least of Killian's worries, but he did grab a handful of linen strips and a garment for warmth. Moving on.

Inside the cabinet next to Z herself, the top shelf held vials and vials of unrecognizable medications. A hasty survey revealed no morphine, Vicodin, or anything else particularly helpful in that regard.

It wasn’t worth the effort to get up on the table for himself. Killian tossed the supplies he had collected so far onto a clear patch of floor by the wall. Then he forced himself over to the chest of drawers near the sink. Therein he found the staple gun, as well as extra suture material, which he collected without allowing himself to dwell on it. There were refills for the stapler, but in all of his searching, he couldn't find any of the large straight needles she used for the IV treatment. How could she be so well stocked with everything else but that? He would have to report it to his Master so that it could set priorities for the next supply run...

Killian stopped and squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again the scene before him continued to waver. Cold prickles attacked the area behind his eyes and shivered down the back of his neck. Reality and charade blended so that, for a moment, he forgot what he was doing there. He was running out of time.

Ultimately, it was a severe twinge from his ankle that brought him back to full awareness. He staggered toward the table where Z’s tray waited. Placing staple gun and sutures onto the metal surface, he then took the tray in hand. The iodine sloshed over the sides of the shallow basin on top, bathing the instruments in yellow stain.

He returned to where he had left the other supplies and slumped with his shoulder against the wall. It was the only thing that saved him from a painful collapse onto the floor. His skin left a bloody streak on the paint as he slid down and landed with a groan. After a few centering breaths he forced himself to focus, knowing that if he allowed himself to close his eyes and rest, he would probably never wake up. First priority: fluids. And the biggest obstacles to that would be his ability to set everything up one-handed, and then to actually hit a vein without any sort of training.

There was more iodine on the tray and floor than in the basin by the time Killian thumped it down onto the stone. He could see the expected needles in what was left of their interrupted bath and had a brief flashback to a work safety video he’d watched with Emma expounding upon the dangers of sharing needles. But he had no choice, and really, the odds of surviving long enough for bloodborne pathogens to become a concern were hovering close to zero.

With the tray safely on the floor beside him, Killian reached for the IV bag. His ankle throbbed mercilessly, and he didn’t even want to look at it for fear of passing out, but in his peripheral vision, he could see the blood welling. To his immediate left stood one of the cabinets, with a protruding knob at just the proper height to hang the pouch. A gravelly groan accompanied his blind reach; he hurt in too many places to twist or try and get up to his knees. Eventually, the small loop at the top caught on the knob, and Killian dropped his arm with a sigh of relief. 

Now for a difficulty: popping a slender needle onto an equally tiny bit of plastic one-handed. He was normally fairly dexterous, and given enough practice, could master most tasks without the necessity of a second set of fingers. But he had neither the usual time nor steadiness as assets. Setting his jaw, he fished in the iodine remnants until locating one of the long needles so favored by Z. He did his best to grip it by the base and not touch either end as he gave it a final swish in the disinfectant. Then, holding the needle between thumb and forefinger, he grabbed the tubing between pinkie and ring finger. Once he had aligned the plug with the needle’s hollow base, he used delicate pressure to connect the two. It took more tries than he would have liked, due to uncontrollable interrupting tremors, but eventually, he had the two pieces in weak connection. He brought the setup carefully to his mouth, gripped the plug between his teeth, and used that leverage to insert it more firmly into the needle. Then it was just a matter of winding the little screw-on security apparatus, and it seemed ready to go. He held it in hand once more, opened the stopcock on the tubing, watched a small stream of liquid shoot from the hollow needle, then shut it off once again.

The only thing he had to use as a tourniquet was a linen bandage. This he tied with a slipknot before sliding it gingerly over his ring-and-stake accessory and up around his upper arm. He again used his teeth to assist, this time by grabbing the loose end of the bandage and pulling tight. It seemed to work all right; he could feel the tingly throb of his heartbeat in his forearm as blood backed up in the veins.

Feeling fainter by the second, Killian couldn’t afford to hesitate or spend much time locating a vein. He positioned the needle’s point just above a still-visible puncture mark mid-forearm from just a couple of days ago. At least that way he would be in the general area, even if he had zero inkling of what angle to go in.

Poking himself did not present that much of a mental hurdle. He’d done it before, when desperate times had required him to suture his own injuries: a skill which would, unfortunately, be called upon in a few moments. This needle was bigger in diameter and similarly blunted by regular use, but once he applied enough pressure, it popped through the skin with a familiar sting and then moved much more easily. He rooted around at a fairly shallow angle for a little while, knowing from past observation that blood should appear in the tubing once he entered a vein.

A combination of luck and persistence rewarded him with a result a few moments later, after he was already thoroughly tired of mutilating his own flesh. The area invaded by the needle burned, and a faint bruise was already visible over the moving steel. But then a definite spurt of blood curled up into the tubing, and Killian froze. He was in--but now what? The needle still protruded halfway out of his skin, and at an angle too steep to try and secure it as it was. But if he decided to move, he risked poking through the vessel and having to start over.

As delicately as he could manage, Killian decreased the angle and pushed the needle deeper. It made sense to him that the vein would travel at a relatively constant depth within his arm, which meant parallel to the skin. So by steadily advancing while at the same time changing the angle, he would hopefully follow the vessel’s path.

He watched as blood continued to mingle with the saline; its dilution was making it hard to tell for certain whether fresh was still coming in or not. An involuntary tremor spasmed through his fingers, and he cursed through gritted teeth. He had felt a very definite jolt of the needle within his flesh, the twinge of pain a possible sign of its dislodging. But all he could do was hope for the best. Another centimeter, and the base of the needle came into contact with his arm. There were still 3 or 4 millimeters of steel sticking out, but he could apply tape now to secure it. Very slowly, Killian released his grip, making certain that none of his fingers were tangled in the plastic tubing. The needle remained in place, shivering slightly with each pulse. Killian first loosened the tourniquet, then he reached for the stopcock and said a prayer as he opened the valve.

The blood-tinged saline flowed quickly into his arm as gravity sent fluid trickling into the drip chamber above. There didn’t seem to be any obstruction, and his forearm didn’t swell like a water balloon, which Killian took to be a very good sign indeed. Releasing the breath he’d been holding, he selected a roll of surgical tape, tore a strip off with his teeth, and gently smoothed it over the protruding needle. There. Now, if he were to lose consciousness, at least he was replacing the blood volume being lost through his open wounds.

Now for the ankle. It didn’t have to be pretty, or even thorough. It just had to get him through the next day or so. Prevent him bleeding out before having a chance to enact the plan.

Killian had hoped to give Emma more time. Without her contribution, he would fail, simple as that. But he could not last longer. 20 minutes ago, after being dumped into a heap outside, he had nearly lacked the strength to rise. He might have lay there until the luminous columns of Zeus’ domain replaced the mud and despair, and then all of this would have been for nothing. How many more times could he find a way to get back up? How long before his quivering muscles would no longer obey?

Before the sinister voice in his head became too compelling to resist?

He would give her until tomorrow. Gamble that the next Session would not break him beyond hope, that his maimed body would make it that long, and that Emma would find a way in time.

Twice, the staple gun slipped between uncoordinated fingers before Killian finally managed to grab hold. It had better not require much effort to trigger. Fighting back nausea, Killian struggled to shift his weight. Repairing the ribbons of flayed skin would be like trying to piece together a document that had gone through a paper shredder. And he couldn’t even aim properly.

He hovered the business end over the lowest line of dark maroon, near his heel.

_“You can’t just shoot the staples willy-nilly,”_ whispered Smee in his ear. Or maybe it was Dr. Whale. _”The skin needs to be pressed together first…”_

“Sod off.” He squeezed the handle.

SNAP!

Killian cursed vehemently.

_“Sir… you missed…”_

“Bloody hell…”

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

_“Maybe you should open your eyes for this… Captain?”_

SNAP!

SCREAM FOR ME… MY TRIPOD… SCREAM FOR YOUR MASTER….

_Hope_ —SNAP!— _kidnapped_ —SNAP!— _Hope_ —SNAP!— _dead?_ —SNAP!— _No?_ —SNAP!— _No Hope_ —SNAP! SNAP!— _No hope_ —SNAP!— _No hope…_

_“Hook! That’s enough! Hook, stop!”_

Killian wiped away tears. A haphazard mess of metal now drowned in the blood of his inner ankle, sometimes intersecting the wounds, other times burrowed into perfectly intact flesh. One more, maybe… right there…

SNAP! _Dammit!_

Close enough.

I ENJOY THE LITTLE UTTERANCES, TRIPOD, BUT CANNOT LIVE OFF OF THEM.

_No hope… no hope… no hope…_

_“How ever will the pirate reach his outer ankle?”_

Who was that, now; the Crocodile?

“Give me my hand back and I’ll show you.”

A true problem, that. Were he not injured in a dozen other places, he could possibly twist far enough. As it was, he could really only reach around from beneath and fire blindly.

_“What’s the difference? It isn’t as if you watched what you were doing when you_ could _see.”_

*****

Enough cursing and arguing with the array of invisible onlookers got Killian through 13 jolting shocks on the other side of his ankle. In truth, he probably needed more, but the device had run out of staples and he couldn’t decipher how to refill it. With any luck, the stinging bits of metal coupled with a tight bandage would be enough to encourage clotting.

Sleep. He ached for sleep, almost hungering for it. The bag of saline was nearly empty, and he briefly considered swapping it out for a full one, slowing the drip rate, and lying down right there to give in to the temptation. But that would likely earn him an extra beating; one card stacked in favor of early demise.

22, 24 hours more. That’s all he needed. Maybe all he had left in him. 

_No hope._ It was true, wasn’t it? No longer a mantra. A reality. 

_No hope._ If they failed? What then? What would Emma be left with? Nothing. No advantage, no leverage, _no hope._

Then he realized. He could leave one thing behind. Not much, but better than nothing. Without Z supervising her tools, it was his first opportunity to even consider doing it. He cast narrowed eyes on the tub of iodine at his side. He knew there was one in there; he’d sliced a finger on it while searching for the damn needle.

Screw sanitation. It was too late anyway. Killian reached out and, more by accident than design, flipped the tub all the way over. Brown-tinged liquid soaked the stone floor, metallic instruments clattered in a prickly pile beneath. He batted the useless tub aside and scoured the mess for the scalpel blade. 

It took some doing to grasp it between thumb and forefinger, but at least he managed to snag a pre-loaded, curved suturing needle in the process. He was going to need that. 

No scar marked the spot; he would be required to go on memory alone. Killian increased the volume of his internal chant as camouflage. Just there, left shoulder, below the collarbone. Correct? He pulled a deep breath and gritted his teeth. He had to be quick: looking down at such a severe angle, with the need for intense focus, was already making the world spin.

In one brutal movement, he stabbed the sharp tip of the blade into his flesh, then dragged it sideways, making a long but shallow incision parallel to the clavicle. The wound burned as it began to leak blood. Hastily, Killian placed the scalpel blade on his leg to give himself easy access. Then he wriggled his finger into the cut, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of pain. It wasn’t that deep, surely? He should be able to feel it, a small oddity among the warm, slippery mass of skin and muscle. 

His breath left him in a low growl as he probed deeper. The memory of pain seemed to be right in that area… but who could tell whether or not the current sensation was influencing that. He pressed harder, pointer finger now buried almost to the second joint. Forceps, if he could find some, might hurt less-- _might_ \--but wouldn’t give him the ability to distinguish between flesh and metal.

There! Something dug into the pad of his fingertip, pointed and motile. Grimacing, he pushed against the object and felt an uncomfortable shifting within his shoulder. It was deeper than he’d anticipated, and lower down; how could be possibly grasp the bit of metal, much less extract it from its cocoon of flesh?

Blood spurted from the wound as Killian reluctantly removed his finger. He’d have to try and push it out through a secondary incision. 

Another line of fire joined the first. It was lower down his chest, closer to his arm, where he approximated the other end of the capsule to be. He had meant to cut just as deep… but in reality, may have held back more than he had intended. 

His finger wormed its agonizing way back into the hole. Seconds later, a nasty twinge told him he’d located his target. The lower incision continued to bleed freely; his whole left chest and flank were now stained red. With a snarl of pain, Killian pushed as hard as he could against the metal capsule, attempting to guide it toward the exit hole. He could feel it shifting, tearing through muscle fibers and subcutaneous tissue with its tapered end. A small bulge appeared in his skin, slightly below the second cut. Hissing curses, he lifted his stump, not caring if he dislodged the needle in his forearm. He hated using the wrist ring and all of the pain that it brought, but it was his only option.

Though still bandaged from his short stint in the hospital, the end of the stake protruded slightly, and he used this to pull on the skin of his chest. The incision gaped a little wider, ultimately stretching over the place where the capsule was stuck. More pressure, more tearing, accompanied by a yell of pained effort, and then the metal point appeared, covered in bright blood. Killian sucked in one more steadying breath before savagely thrusting with his finger; at the same time, he drove the wrist stake in toward his ribs.

The metal capsule popped free of his flesh and landed between his legs, leaving a ruddy trail as it rolled along the stones. Panting, Killian removed his finger and held the bandaged wrist against both incisions, then snatched the capsule up with a bloodstained hand before it could skitter out of reach. Blasted thing. He scowled at it, eyes slightly unfocused, shivering with exhaustion and pain. Where to hide it?

Within a bandage was the logical place. His wrist, simply because it was easy to reach. Hopefully, the Master would not bother with the wrapping until an opportune time presented itself. 

Suture shoulder. Maybe ribs. Put on sackcloth. Then barn and sleep. 

Tomorrow would be the end.

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**AN: cocohook38 / sancocnutclub on tumblr has made THE MOST GLORIOUS art based on this chapter!!!!! SOOOOOOO MUCH BLOOD!!!!!!!!!! And the attention to detail is just astounding!!!!!!!! PLEASE PAY HER BLOG A VISIT! The whumpy stuff is posted on sancocnutclub, but she does other adorable Killian, Captain Swan, and Knightrook pieces on her main blog as well. I'm continually amazed by her talent! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**


	20. Chapter 20

_**5 weeks + 1 day ago** _

Killian snuck out of the darkened room and closed the door as quietly as he could. He flashed a wink and a smile at his wife, who was sitting with Belle at a small table in the corner.

“Out like a light,” he reported. As he strode over to join them, Emma laughed incredulously.

“Man, we should visit more often. You really wore her out, Belle.”

“You’re welcome anytime we’re in one place long enough to have company,” Belle assured them. Killian resumed his chair at the table and eyed the book beneath his friend’s hands.

“How’s the research coming?”

“We, uh, may have found something,” Belle grinned. She slid the open book over to Killian, and he twisted it to face him.

“Vocivore,” said Emma, using a soft ‘ _c_ ’ sound. Then she tried it with ‘ _ch_.’ “Vo-ch-ivore?”

As Killian scanned the page for the matching entry, Belle said,

“Could be either, but ‘vociferous’ comes to mind; maybe the soft sound is more correct?”

Killian nodded his agreement. The small paragraph in the corner of the page was flanked by a vague blob of ink that may have been someone’s attempt to sketch the creature, although who could tell if it was based on reality or simply nightmare imaginings. Killian read aloud the accompanying description.

“‘ _2.5 to 3 meters tall. Reportedly telepathic. Enslaves and brainwashes humans. Victims exhibit degenerative neurological symptoms resulting from morphological changes in the brain. Invariably fatal_.’” He scanned the facing page. “That’s all?”

Belle nodded solemnly. “In this book, at least. But if we know the creature’s name, we can more easily search for further information.”

“Certainly seems like our guy,” Emma stated, watching Killian for signs of agreement. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. 

“Not much to go on, is there?”

“‘ _Morphological changes?_ ’” she quoted at him. “That’s gotta be the brain shriveling. And you have to recognize brainwashing when you see it.”

“Just how reliable is this author?” Killian asked Belle as he flipped to the front cover. She shrugged.

“We’ve had good results in the past. For now, it’s all we have to work with.” She glanced toward the door, adding, “Rumple’s gone to fetch another book that may confirm the theory.”

Killian reread the entry, scowled at its ambiguity, and sat back. “ _Vocivore_. So then… it eats voices?”

“Assuming the name is literal.”

“Doesn’t give us a lot of ideas for defeating it.”

“And you won’t find many of those elsewhere, I’m afraid,” came Rumple’s voice from the doorway. The three friends turned to face him as he strode inside. He carried a book bound in cracked leather, which he tossed carelessly onto the table in front of Killian. “It turns out I _did_ recognize the name, and it’s almost certainly what you’re facing back in the United Realms.”

Killian began idly flipping through the index of the new book, half his attention on finding an entry for _Vocivore_.

“Do you know much about it?” Belle asked. Rumple sat at the fourth and final chair, across from Emma. He shook his head in a grave negative.

“No one does. Anyone who gets close enough inevitably becomes the creature’s slave, and thus unable to give any sort of report. It is unknown whether it can be defeated, because no one has ever done it.”

Killian and Emma exchanged an uneasy glance.

“No one?” repeated Emma. “In the history of… ever?”

“On the bright side,” Rumple said with a sneer, “as former Dark Ones, the two of you are probably immune, both to the brainwashing and the physical effects on the brain.”

“Fantastic,” grumbled Killian, sliding the book toward Belle so she could take over the search. “We know our course of action then, Swan; all we have to do is leave everyone in Storybrooke to their fate. It’ll certainly reduce the wait times at Granny’s.”

Emma ignored his sarcasm. “It doesn’t seem to matter that we’re immune, though. Whenever we try to get close to the guy, he sends his slaves out to stop us.” She rested her elbows on the table and began tapping her fingers in agitation.

“Have you thought of bombing the monster?” Rumple asked casually. Both Emma and Killian shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. Belle looked up from her book to await their answer.

“Of course we _thought_ of it,” Killian finally admitted. “Only… the collateral damage…”

“Blowing up the monster would kill a lot of innocent slaves,” Emma finished for him. “We’re not that desperate yet.”

“The slaves will die anyway,” Rumple pointed out with a dismissive wave of his hand. “For the greater good, a bomb may be the only solution.”

“We’re not willing to admit defeat on that point,” Emma objected. “Dr. Whale is working on a way to reverse the effects.”

Rumple gave a strained smile and slight eye roll; Killian found he had to agree with his skepticism.

“There’s also the question of delivery,” Killian pointed out. “Phil’s hot air balloon didn't get within a mile of there. It was shot so full of holes that the operator was lucky to survive.”

“Even our drone was shot down, if you can believe that,” added Emma. Belle looked impressed, but Rumple merely shrugged.

“The issue is intent. The creature’s telepathic abilities allow it to sense any attempts at attack, or even reconnaissance. Perhaps its control over its slaves goes so far as allowing it to guide their movements from time to time.”

“Help them to aim, you mean?” Emma made a face. “Oh good grief.”

“And anything that got past the slaves--a helicopter, for example--would almost certainly fail as well,” Rumple pointed out. “Proximity would allow the Vocivore to influence the pilot’s mind, resulting in either a spectacular crash out of harm’s way, or a helicopter to add to the monster’s ranks.”

“What about your magic?” asked Belle. “Er, if… if you decided to… use a bomb, that is. Just poof it in.”

“Yeah, he’s got some kind of shielding up around his compound,” grumbled Emma. “Also why I haven’t been able to poof _myself_ in to poke around.”

They all fell silent for a moment, seemingly at a dead end. Belle closed the book, shaking her head at the lack of additional info. She had scribbled down notes on a notepad, but the details covered less than a quarter of the page. Absently, she began doodling in the margins; mainly geometric patterns, lines that connected with lines. Almost like tally marks overlaid on top of each other. And Killian was brought back to the day they’d met. The day he’d snuck into her dungeon, his desperate and ruthless plan to extract information from her at any cost. Feeling the usual disgust at his actions back then--back when he was a villain--Killian scowled and almost brushed the memories aside. But then he stopped himself. Stealth. Playing a part, fooling the guards. What if…

“You say we’re immune,” he said slowly, eyeing Rumple warily. “The three of us: you, me, and Emma.”

“Very likely.”

“Protected from the brainwashing and the illness, yes?”

“I believe so.”

“And the telepathy?”

Rumple considered this, his eyes never leaving his former nemesis’ face. “To a degree, I would imagine. It’s hard to say without ever having experimented with it myself.”

“What are you thinking, babe?”

Killian drew a slow breath. Did he dare? He’d seen the state of far too many victims. Beyond their neurological issues, the majority were in a condition of such physical wretchedness that it was astounding they were even alive. _Slave_ was almost too gentle a term. _Torture survivor_... closer. He shuddered, swallowed a stab of fear, and said,

“Suppose… suppose I approached the monster under the pretense of… surrendering myself to its mercies. I could gather intelligence, discern its weaknesses, perhaps even discover a way to kill it.”

Both Emma and Belle looked horrified at the suggestion; Rumple, however, wore an expression of mild intrigue. Killian cursed him inwardly.

“That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” Emma spat, using scorn to cover obvious fear. Belle nodded in concerned agreement. But Rumple held up a hand.

“Do go on,” he urged. Killian worked his jaw in silence, then shrugged.

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten with it. If you've any reasonable objections, feel free to voice them. Believe me, I’m open to anything.”

“Here’s one for you,” scowled Emma. “The monster will kill you.”

“Not immediately.” Killian couldn’t believe he was arguing for this absurd plot. “If it killed its victims right away, then it wouldn't have the hordes of slaves we’ve encountered at every turn.”

“How the hell would it help anything for you to ‘gather intel’ if there’s no way for you to get it back to us? You die, the info dies with you.”

“Maybe I could bring some sort of communication device--”

“He would find it. And kill you.”

“Okay, but he seems to send his slaves out on errands; if I convince him to send _me,_ then--”

“He’ll think you’re trying to get back to us. And kill you.”

“Emma, if you’ll just--”

“He. Will. Kill. You.”

Killian released a long sigh of frustration. But Emma was right. There were too many risks, and no guarantees of any return on investment. They were back to nothing. No way of defeating the monster, no info that was remotely helpful… they would have to either send a suicide bomber, evacuate the entire United Realms, or possibly both. Leaving all of the innocent slaves to die an agonizing death.

“I think the idea has merit.”

Emma turned her glare on Rumple. “You would.”

Rumple’s answering smirk was aloof, calculating. “I may have a device that will allow you to listen in on your husband’s interaction with the beast; a way that would be totally undetectable, even should the Vocivore require the disposal of all clothing.” Rumple shot a glance in Killian’s direction. “Which it undoubtedly will.”

Killian ground his teeth together in order to contain growing impatience. Of course _Rumplestiltskin_ would be in support. However precariously cordial their interactions had become lately, there was still a small part of both of them which would not object to the other man’s demise.

“Isn’t anyone catching on to the fact that Killian will _die?_ ” Emma seemed to realize her voice was rising to a volume dangerously close to a level that might wake Hope. Her lips compressed into a tense line; Belle reached for her hand and gave it a supportive squeeze. Rumple continued, very calm.

“I don’t believe he will. As the pirate said: the Vocivore must have slaves to survive. As long as he can convince it of his obedience, he will likely have time to at least gather a layout of the compound, get a feeling for the daily routine, how many slaves it has, et cetera. He can report to you through my transmitter, and all of this may result in valuable intelligence from which a plan of attack can be built.”

“And if it fails? If we’re left with only the bombing option, I sure as hell won’t order it with Killian in harm’s way. And then we have to figure out a rescue mission on _top_ of a bombing run.”

It was Killian’s turn to reach out for Emma. She allowed him to cup his hand over her fist, but did not return any affection.

“It won’t come to that, love. We’ll either learn something else that will help, or I’ll come back to you once the monster trusts me enough to send me out on missions.”

“And how long’s that gonna take?” she snapped, turning red-rimmed eyes in his direction.

“Mr. Clay came back less than a week after he went missing,” Killian reminded her. “All I have to do is present a model of perfect obedience. I can do that.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, looking extremely doubtful. Just then, Belle broke in.

“Uh, guys? Big flaw here, I’m sorry to say. Is the monster really going to believe Killian turned himself in for no reason?”

Killian nodded slowly. “We’ll have to come up with a plausible motive.”

“Even then, even if he can’t read your mind, what about everyone else? Won’t they give the game away?”

“Well… I…”

“We don’t tell them,” Emma said quietly, then winced. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m helping with this.”

Killian watched her scrub her eyes as he awaited further explanation.

“Keep everyone else in the dark. The monster will only be reinforced in his belief that you’re genuine if everyone else believes it too.” She glared at Rumple again. “That’s assuming you’re right and he really _can’t_ read our minds.”

“If memory serves, it doesn't read _anyone’s_ mind outright; it’s more like it… senses their emotions. And with enough people exhibiting authentic shock and dismay, that should easily overpower any deception from the two of you.” He studied Killian for a beat, then added, “To be on the safe side, I would recommend keeping your guard up, doing as much as you can to convince yourself the situation is real. Once you’re safely in its clutches… I don’t think you'll have much trouble living in a state of appropriate despair.”

Killian bristled as a shudder of fear overtook him. He didn’t need reminding what he was getting himself into; his imagination filled in all of the pieces in disturbing detail. Emma pulled her hand out from under his, swearing as she dug her fingers into her eyes.

“This is insane. We can’t actually be considering this.”

“Swan…” He halted, heaved a sigh, then changed approaches. “You’re right; it _is_ insane. But I don't see any other option. From what we’ve heard today… if we don't take advantage of the only leverage we have over this creature… we may as well surrender now.” He gently pulled her hand away from her face, leaning forward to place a kiss on her knuckles. “We have to do it. For Hope. To keep her safe; to give her and children like her a chance at a future. If anything were to happen to her, I’d…”

Killian broke off with a hissing inhale; Emma’s head snapped up, and he knew she’d had the same thought.

“Bloody hell. That’s it. That’s the motive.”

“But… no, we can’t…”

“It makes sense, Emma. It’s perfect. No one could argue against the plausibility.”

“We can’t do that to people!” Emma objected forcefully, near tears. “My parents… it’ll _devastate_ them!”

Killian grimaced, feeling sick. “That’s… that’s what we need, isn’t it?”

Belle was watching their interaction, dread and confusion blending on her face. “Killian? Emma? What…?”

Killian entwined his fingers with his wife’s as he turned to face Belle. “What would you think about having Hope come and stay with you for awhile?”

She answered without hesitation. “Of course; anytime, but why…” Then the truth dawned on her, and she gulped. “Oh.”

Almost frantic, Emma was shaking her head. “We can’t leave her for that long! We don’t even know how long it will take… she’ll think we abandoned her!”

Killian looked away, ashamed. He should have thought of that; it should have been the _first_ thing on his mind. They couldn’t even consider doing something like that to her, not even for--

“Not if we take her back to the last realm we visited,” Belle broke into his thoughts in a timidly helpful tone. “What was it that we calculated, Rumple? The difference in the passage of time? 60 to 1?”

“Approximately.”

“So you could be gone for two months before a day passes there.”

Killian felt bile rising at the thought of two months in the clutches of the monster. “It won’t come to that,” he assured everyone but himself. To him, it was more of a desperate prayer. “That sounds like just what we need.”

“Is that okay with you, dear?” Belle reached for Rumple, who responded with a tight smile.

“You don’t even have to ask,” simpered her husband. “Anything to help our friends from Storybrooke. But I’d be remiss if we don’t address the elephant in the room.”

“And what would that be?” sighed Killian.

“The torture,” said Rumple coolly. “You are aware of that aspect, are you not?”

Killian didn’t flinch. “I am.” He heard Emma draw a sharp breath at the acknowledgement, and he squeezed her hand. Rumple shrugged, unperturbed.

“I just wanted to be sure you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into.”

“Most kind of you, mate.”

“What we _haven’t_ discussed,” Emma interrupted, “is why we’re assuming it’s going to be _you_ and not me.”

Killian looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Why it… Emma, you can’t seriously--”

“Why not? I have magic; it probably _should_ be me.”

“You just said that the monster has shielding against magic. There’s no advantage for you there.”

“So then we’re even. Maybe we should flip a coin.”

“We’re not even,” Killian said firmly, scrambling for anything to solidify his position. “H… Hope, she--”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” she hissed, somehow knowing exactly what he was going to say. “She needs you just as much as she needs me. End of story.”

“All right then. I’ll tell you why it has to be me. Because the people of Storybrooke are used to listening to you. You’re solidified as their leader, their sheriff… if it comes down to a coordinated effort, they’re going to need their savior. They’ll rally for you; more than they ever would for me.”

Emma’s eyes softened. “Oh, Killian. They would listen to you. You’re… you’ve grown to be an integral part of the town’s leadership. I’m sure… I mean, you shouldn’t feel like…” 

She trailed off, and Killian knew she’d seen his point. Maybe if things were desperate and he was able to present a well-organized plan… but even then, he’d likely still get resistance from Regina. The dwarves. Probably even the Charmings, if it came to the safety of their daughter. No, Emma was by far the better person to run things in his absence. Killian pulled a long, fortifying breath.

“So. How do we go about putting this scheme into action?”

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**AN: Confession time! I personally have no interest in the Rumbelle storyline. Nothing at all against people who do; I'm glad that they got what seems like a very nice happy ending for their ship. That said, I only kind of half-watched the non-Killian parts of "Beauty" the first time it aired and have not bothered with it since. So Belle and Rumple in this story are based on my vague memories of that one viewing. If it makes it slightly AU in that respect, then so be it.**

**If I recall correctly, they did some travelling before ending up at Belle's death cottage, and then after that, Rumple went back in time to join the S7 characters. So there possibly could have been some years where they were in different realms, apart from the United Realms, and could have had visitors. Maybe? Perhaps they never went back to Storybrooke (and aren't allowed to know their future even though Killian and Emma now do), but that doesn't mean they never saw their friends again. At least in my version :D It stands to reason, then, that they might want to get the band back together in an attempt to figure out a solution for their monster problem.**

**Also, a note about timelines: even though the "present" timeline is also moving, try and think of "past" timelines as based on one present day (Monday, if you were to get technical about it.) To try and keep it easier on everyone, I didn't change calculations as the present week progressed. So "Five Weeks ago" is always the day Killian and Emma announce Hope's alleged kidnapping.**


	21. Chapter 21

**_5 weeks ago..._ **

“So… we’re really doing this?”

Emma and Killian were both red-eyed and exhausted, having spent most of the night fleshing out their plot and the remainder in the grip of anxious nightmares that weren’t fully driven away by the morning sun. Fresh off of an emotional farewell to their achingly oblivious daughter, it was no wonder that they battled second thoughts now.

Leaning against a tree trunk, his shirt unbuttoned down to the navel, Killian fidgeted with his hook. “I don’t see that we’ve many alternatives. The monster must be stopped; this may be our only chance. Even the bloody Crocodile thinks so.”

“You know we’re desperate when we start turning to _him_ for opinions,” sighed Emma. Killian could only roll his eyes in agreement.

“Believe me, Swan; I’m well aware.”

“This is such an idiotic plan,” she groaned. “They’re all gonna _kill_ us when they find out.”

“Well, by that time, the abductions will have stopped, so they’ll be obligated to thank us while killing us. There’s that, at least.” Killian smirked suggestively. “And if I’m going to be sharing the proverbial dog house with someone, I’m most pleased that it will be with you.”

Emma gave him an assessing once-over. “There’s generally not a lot of room in those things. Do you really think we could still…”

“Oh, most assuredly. Limited space is no obstacle for the determined. And you, lass, are the most determined of them all.”

Drawing closer, Emma ran her hand up his exposed chest hair, grinning. “Damn right.”

She tugged briefly and Killian pounced, trapping her in a tight embrace and locking his lips over hers. She pushed back, inching him backwards until he was sandwiched between her and the tree. They shared the kiss of the desperate, knowing it may be one of their last in a very long time.

Annoyingly, Rumplestiltskin popped up nearby only seconds--minutes?--into the kiss. He cleared his throat to announce his presence, but neither Killian nor Emma would allow him to dictate the length of their contact. And when they did break apart, it was only by inches. Face to face, they soaked in each other’s gazes, communicating wordlessly their love, their fears and promises. Emma broke the silence first.

“In case we don’t get another minute alone before you… go… just... I wanted to say…” Her voice wavered and she trailed off. Killian reached up to wipe away a tear from her cheek, and she leaned into the touch, sniffling. “Sorry. I… I don’t know if I can go through with this.”

“It’s okay, love,” he murmured, continuing to caress her face. He fixed her with his most earnest expression as he offered the words of encouragement that, in all honesty, he needed as much as she did. “I have faith in you, Emma. You _can._ And if you can… then so can I.”

She still looked stricken, devastated at the thought of what lay ahead. But somehow, she managed to compose herself, gathering the determined courage that Killian so loved in her, focusing on the practical, the present moment, what her husband needed from her right now. What she could give him… while he was there in front of her. Finally, after one more shaky, centering breath, Emma echoed the words she’d said to Henry all those years ago.

“I’ll miss the hell out of you.”

The corners of Killian’s mouth twitched and he gave thanks for her presence, both now and in the days to come. He may not always be in receipt of such direct support from her, but he knew he would never stop sensing her well-wishes, no matter what happened. “Likewise. But with any luck, we’ll immediately hear something useful, and you can come rescue me within the day.”

“You won’t be hearing _anything_ unless we get this done,” Rumple broke in, and both Killian and Emma rolled their eyes in irritation.

“Would it kill you to wait a few minutes, Gold?” Emma growled.

“Not me. I could probably endure a moment more of your PDA. Not sure the same could be said of the Vocivore’s current victims, though. I can’t imagine they’d be thrilled about your groping each other while they're having their brains shriveled.”

As intentionally inflammatory as his statements were, they did bear a kernel of truth, and reluctantly, the couple pulled apart. Emma pivoted to face Rumple as she took Killian’s hand. Finally tearing his eyes from his wife’s face, Killian shot a cold look at his former foe. He caught sight of a plastic contraption, shaped like a pistol but bigger and with a longer barrel. Rumple held it up obligingly, and Killian raised a defiant eyebrow.

“That’s it, then?”

He managed to sound casual, scornful even, but his finely honed self-preservation instincts were jolting a warning: _do not let that bastard anywhere near you with that bloody thing!_

Rumple was wearing a bland smile. “As I mentioned, just a little something I picked up on my travels. May I?”

Killian nodded permission, trying to regain control of his pounding heart. Emma squeezed his hand in reassurance.

“It’s normally used to implant tracking devices in wild beasts, I’m told. I made some… slight modifications, to suit our needs.” He held up a small metallic shape, similar to a medicine capsule but thicker and longer, with sharply tapered ends. “Your transmitter. It has a battery life of 2 weeks but can recharge itself using the electrical energy of your body cells.”

“I’m not convinced you’ve handled it enough, Crocodile; why don’t you go ahead and give it a lick, for good measure?”

Rumple sneered. “Listen to that; the pirate’s up to speed on his germ theory.” He opened a hidden chamber in the back of the device and dropped the transmitter into the slot. After sliding the tiny door closed with a click, he waved his hand over the whole implant gun, presumably sterilizing the transmitter within. “Satisfied?”

Killian glared at the gun, not saying anything. But Emma cocked her head. 

“Why not just use magic to implant it, too?”

Killian half expected the imp to say, _Where would be the fun in that?_ Instead, Rumple explained,

“If this monster truly can influence magic, we wouldn't want him to be able to sense its presence, now would we? Magical insertion leaves a trace, no matter how carefully done. Best not take the chance.”

“More importantly, Swan, the number of times I've had his hand inside of me is more than enough for three lifetimes.”

Emma snorted a laugh, running her fingers along his arm soothingly. “What about healing it afterward? Wouldn’t that leave a trace as well?”

“It may, but the Vocivore won’t be able to discern what’s been magically healed. For all it knows, the pirate is simply clumsy and prone to injuring himself.” Rumple flashed a nasty grin. “Now then. Do you need to be sitting down for this? Wouldn't want you to pass out on me.” 

“Just get on with it, Crocodile.”

The Dark One hefted the implant gun, pulled back on some sort of spring mechanism, and then waved vaguely toward Killian’s shoulder. “If you would be so kind…”

With a short-tempered huff, Killian disengaged his hand from Emma’s grip and pushed aside the gaping collar of his shirt to expose his left chest and shoulder. He patiently held the fabric in place in order to give a clear field for the procedure. Rumple produced an alcohol wipe out of thin air and scrubbed roughly at a patch of skin just below the collarbone as a wary Killian watched for any sign of duplicity. Using one hand to stretch the skin taut, Rumple positioned the gun at an angle, its specially-designed guard at the tip of the barrel guiding him as to the proper placement.

Killian wasn’t expecting a warning, and he didn’t get one either. A loud snap preceded what felt like a very hard and focused punch to the area, then a sharp, hot lance of pain immediately followed. It spread into a bright throb as startled nerves scrambled to react. A tightening of his jaw and a slow breath were Killian’s only concession to the discomfort; he certainly didn’t want to give Rumplestiltskin the satisfaction of a wince, not if he could help it. 

The absurd image of a cartoon he’d watched with Hope flashed into his mind: a dog is guarding a sleeping bear and keeps injuring himself, but in order to avoid waking the bear, he runs miles away before letting loose with a torrent of reactionary howls. Not that this relatively minor pain merited such an extreme response… but Killian was grateful for the brief distraction all the same.

Rumple pulled the gun away and exposed a dark hole with a diameter somewhat larger than a pencil. A faint, diagonal purple line tapered in the direction of the shoulder joint. Milliseconds later, blood welled from the puncture and dripped down Killian’s chest. The first of many droplets to be shed, came the morbid thought unbidden. Emma spread her fingers, obviously intent on healing the small wound, but the Dark One stopped her.

“I wouldn’t. Not yet.”

Gingerly, Killian pressed a finger over the hole and raised an annoyed eyebrow. With strained patience, Rumple explained,

“We haven't tested it yet. We need to make sure no… adjustments are necessary.”

As Killian massaged the ache, he could feel an irritating shift of the foreign object embedded in his flesh. Emma lowered her hand, impatient.

“Okay… ready when you are.”

Rumple stepped back calmly, addressing Killian with his usual aloofness. “We’ll need to travel to a distance equivalent to that which separates Storybrooke and the monster’s lair, to be sure we can hear clearly through the transmitter. So keep talking, Captain. Impress us with your… nautical knowledge, or something.”

The pair of magic users vanished in an abrupt swirl of smoke, leaving Killian alone among the trees. With a roguish smirk that was entirely wasted on the empty forest, he began to speak.

“It’s a damn shame, the fate of the Wish Realm’s Dark One. That can’t have been a pleasant way to go. Still, one could make a very strong argument for why he deserved it.” He allowed a pair of heartbeats to elapse, then added, “Swan, I’m not entirely sure I haven’t gotten the tales mixed up with all the time that’s gone by. If I remember correctly, both Crocodiles had their own brand of suffering to endure, but was it _this_ version or the other who--”

As anticipated, Emma winked back into existence just in front of him, her arms crossed and a look of staged exasperation on her face. “You know you can’t get into that, right? He can’t know that stuff until he experiences it for himself.”

Killian winked at her. “Oh, but darling, wouldn’t it be loads more fun to give him just a _hint_ of what awaits him in his future?”

“You wanna risk changing something, go right ahead.” She reached forward and gently pulled his hand away from the irritated flesh of his shoulder. “He needs you to stop rubbing at it. It’s making it hard to do the sound check.”

Ignoring the small amount of blood dribbling from the puncture, Killian scoffed.

“What’s that, love? I’m making _what_ hard by rubbing?”

Emma simply rolled her eyes and poofed back to wherever Rumple was. Killian took a moment’s pleasure in imagining the sour frown that had hopefully crossed the Dark One’s face as he listened; otherwise, what was the point of winding him up? Sighing, Killian tucked his thumb into his belt and then, in the driest monotone he could summon, he began to list crew and cargo capacities for every type of ship in the Royal Navy. 

His two companions were back in short order; without the threat of punishment hanging over their heads for failing to learn all of the details, they must have found the trivia to be mind-numbingly boring. Killian raised an eyebrow at his wife.

“Well?”

She answered by resting her hand over the streak of blood near his collarbone. As she sealed the break in the skin--this time without the protests of a disinterested Rumple--she confirmed,

“It seems to be working. For the next five minutes, I could tell you how many standard-sized crates fit in the hold of a schooner. Just don’t ask me after ten.”

The majority of the pain had vanished with the puncture wound, and no visible trace remained to mark the presence of the implant. But Killian could still feel a strange hardness within his shoulder, the smallest hint of inflammation where tissues were compressed by the new metallic structure trapped inside.

“I may have failed to mention: it won’t transmit across realms,” the Dark One pointed out. “So best not fall through any portals along the way.”

Emma adjusted her husband’s shirt, not bothering to do up any buttons, and Killian’s own emotions were reflected in her eyes. In a way, the success of Rumple’s device felt like some kind of death knell. One final obstacle to the plan surmounted; they were out of practicality-based excuses, and it was now down to courage alone. 

Going for nonchalant--Rumple was watching, after all--Killian caught Emma’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze.

“Well then, love. I’ll see you back in Storybrooke.”

She mimicked his act. “Yep. Sheriff station, right?”

“Aye.” 

He pulled her close for one more quick embrace. Then Emma produced her magic bean, tossed it toward an empty patch of forest floor, and disappeared through the resulting portal without looking back. 

Perhaps she feared, as he did, that any hesitation would cause their tenuous resolve to come crumbling down around their ears.


	22. Chapter 22

**_5 weeks ago, continued..._ **

The portal sizzled closed behind Emma, leaving Killian and Rumplestiltskin alone in the clearing. According to the plan, Emma needed at least a small head start so that the blame for Hope’s disappearance could fall solely on Killian’s shoulders. But during all of their careful scheming, Killian had concealed something from her: his grudging conclusions about how he would spend the time while he waited. 

Without a word, the Dark One promptly spun on his heel and headed off in the direction of his temporary lodging. Sighing reluctantly, Killian called out a commanding,

“Oi!”

Rumple stopped but didn’t turn back; Killian rolled his eyes and adopted a casual tone. 

“What’s your rush, mate? Surely you could spare me a few moments more, for old times’ sake?”

“Did you require something else, pirate? I’m really rather busy at the moment and I was under the impression that our business was concluded.” Rumple waited to turn until he had finished speaking, as if to emphasize his eagerness to be gone. Killian quirked a sarcastic smile that hid sudden nerves.

“Not to worry; I won’t keep you long.” Killian drew a deep breath as Rumple waited with a peeved expression. “Bloody hell, I can’t believe I’m about to ask this, but… well, look, this whole plot hinges on believability, yes? The entirety of Storybrooke needs to accept my desperation to get my daughter back. And anyone who thinks I wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to keep her from being taken in the first place is very sorely mistaken indeed.”

The Dark One’s startled smirk set Killian’s teeth on edge. “Why, Captain. Are you asking me to give you a beating?”

“You don’t have to look so happy about it,” grumbled Killian, already regretting the request. He grimaced. “I’d much rather have Emma do it, but I couldn’t ask that of her. And I know you won’t hold back to spare me pain. Do keep in mind, though--”

Abruptly, Rumple materialized just in front of the unenthusiastic pirate, cutting him off with a swift fist to the nose. As Killian reeled back in pained surprise, Rumple followed up with a knee to the groin. And then the Dark One was pummeling him, raining magically-enhanced blows down upon a floundering Killian and taking obvious delight in the task. 

Gathering his wits and relying on centuries of combat experience, Killian rallied to the point of blocking or dodging about one third of his opponent’s strikes, even landing a smattering of answering hits upon the imp’s damnable grinning face. But Rumple’s magical speed and power gave him the overwhelming advantage. Killian quickly succumbed to aching exhaustion and simply closed his eyes, waiting for it to be over.

One final uppercut to his face, and the pirate lost his footing and collapsed to the dirt. Gasping for air and spewing the blood that flowed freely into his mouth, Killian tried for any attitude but miserable defeat.

“Would you look at that?” he panted, the brash words falling short in light of his current position on the ground. “I’d heard of crocodile tears… but croc’s blood… that’s a new one.”

“I could say that I didn’t enjoy that,” Rumple began, not even breathing hard. He waved a hand over his own face and all trace of injury instantly melted away. “But we both know it would be a lie.”

“Bastard,” muttered Killian as he struggled to his knees.

“Don’t get up just yet, dearie,” warned Rumple, the slight singsong tone a taunting hint of his true Dark One nature. Killian froze. A flash of foreboding landed in the pit of his aching gut.

“Why?” he growled in suspicion.

Rumple’s voice had a shade of that high, mocking quality that Killian so despised as he answered,

“Because this is probably going to hurt.”

That blasted dagger--the bane of everyone’s existence--misted into view. Before Killian could even flinch, Rumple lunged, and the undulating blade tore into the pirate’s flesh. A wicked, searing anguish jolted through Killian’s side. The dagger slid straight through and exited out the back, then reversed as Rumple yanked it free. Releasing a shocked cry of pain, Killian hunched over and clamped his hand against the wound.

The Dark One dagger faded into smoke, off to resume its place in whatever trophy display currently housed its evil. When he had caught his breath, Killian snarled at Rumple, all trace of concord gone.

“Dammit, Crocodile; I asked you to rough me up a bit, not bloody well run me through!” He winced, every movement sending spikes of unbearable agony throughout his abdomen. He could feel hot blood pulsing out between his fingers.

“You wanted realism,” countered the Dark One, whose demeanor bordered on gloating. “Planned abductions do tend to involve a weapon or two.”

“What good is realism if I bleed to death before the scheme even kicks off?” Sweat mingled with the blood on his face, while agonized tears stung his eyes. “Take it back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” laughed Rumple. “Take back a stab wound? How do you expect me to do that?”

“Heal it,” grunted Killian. His attempts to get to his feet were increasing the pain a hundredfold. “I’m no use to anyone like this.”

“I think… not.” Rumple looked him over once more. “You have your realism, your shock factor… not even Queen Regina herself would notice if either of you were to slip up. Your sheriff spouse will exhibit genuine surprise and fear. And then, of course, _she_ can be the one to heal you. It’s only logical.”

Through the haze of pain, Killian could see his point. If there was one way to ensure that Emma displayed real, startled terror, having her husband appear with a serious injury would do it. And despite the steady flow of blood, Killian didn’t think he was truly in any mortal danger. Just a short trip through the portal, and Emma could use her healing magic on him. But it would be a damn excruciating journey until then.

“I hope you fall off a cliff on your way home,” Killian spat. The Dark One smirked.

“Good luck with that Vocivore, Captain. I would be mildly amused to hear that you lost your head over it.” 

Using disgust as motivator, Killian finally managed to push himself to his feet. He straightened, cursing, feeling the utter wrongness of the tunnel through his flesh.

“Oh, I do enjoy the look of pain on your face,” gloated Rumple. Killian clenched his teeth, in no condition for witty retorts. 

“Sod off, scaly blaggard.”

“Gladly.” Rumple raised his hand in a ‘summoning magic’ sort of motion, but then he snickered. “I may have failed to mention… though the monster is nourished by screams, some of my sources mention rumors of… _other appetites._ I do not envy you in the slightest.”

He waved his hand, his cloud enveloped him, and he was gone. Killian shivered, an instant of panicked shock overshadowing even his excruciating wound. But then he dismissed the statement with a glower. The Crocodile was likely just fabricating something to throw him off balance. He wouldn’t be cowed. Not by bloody Rumplestiltskin.

Moments later, Killian’s portal activated and he hobbled through, eager for the tingle of healing magic, but dreading the necessity of spinning the web of lies and deceit for his family and friends.


	23. Chapter 23

**_Present (Friday, continued)..._ **

“Bloody hell.”

Fidgeting with the stack of useless scouting photos on the dining room table, Detective Jones did not seem inclined to elaborate, so Emma could only sigh in agreement.

“Yeah.”

A moment later, Jones added,

“Stark raving mad, the both of you.”

“So do you understand a little better now? We had a chance, and had to take it.”

“Because the two of you are thought to be immune.”

“Or at least better protected.”

“And he couldn’t just kill the bastard on the first day because of a lack of weapons.”

“That, and Rumplestiltskin thought that, at close range, the monster might still be able to sense murderous intent even with our immunity.”

Jones remained silent for a long time, studying Emma’s face, though he seemed very far away. Feeling the need to justify their deception, Emma said,

“Do you see, now, why it had to be a secret? We weren’t sure how far the Vocivore’s emotion-sensing abilities extended, and now that we know for sure he’s watching on the security cameras, it’s even more important that people believe Killian is firmly under his control.”

“Hold on, back up a tick; what was that about security cameras?”

Emma grimaced. “Apparently, the Vocivore is watching us through security cameras; possibly even hacking into webcams. Oh, and his slaves’ collars have one as well. That’s why Killian had to… you know…”

She waved vaguely toward his chest. He raised an eyebrow and she made a face.

“He feels really bad about that. So do I.”

“Then you _did_ speak with him? The other day, at the hospital?”

Emma squirmed in her seat, nodding. “Sorry.”

Jones sighed in resignation. “I suppose it’s safe to assume he had help in his escape?”

“Guilty. Don’t look at me like that. We have a plan that we think will work. I wouldn’t have let him go otherwise.”

“Care to fill me in on the details? And what makes you feel as if he’s not planning to come back?”

At her hesitation, he leaned forward and placed both hands on the table. “I’m a part of this now, Emma. Your ally. Maybe I can help. But you’ve got to tell me _all_ of it.”

The relief of finally having a confidant, coupled with all of the exact expressions and mannerisms of her endangered husband, caused tears to leak from her eyes. She wiped them viciously away. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” She sniffed. “Sorry. It’s just been hard, facing all this alone. And I’ve gotten used to the hiding. But if we had to trust someone with it, I’m glad it’s going to be you.”

Jones responded with a sad smile. She drew a huge breath.

“So. The rest of the story… and the plan.”

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**_5 weeks ago, continued..._ **

The blasted portal spat Killian out, not in the alleyway closest the sheriff station, as intended, but several blocks beyond that. He cursed quietly and staggered to his feet, hand pressed tightly to the wound in his side. Damn that Crocodile; Killian couldn’t imagine what he’d have to gain by sabotaging the portal, but he wouldn’t put it past him anyway.

The trek to the sheriff station was grueling, made twice as long by the fact that he was trying to avoid being seen. To hell with Rumplestiltskin’s plan; Killian wanted Emma’s healing _before_ they reported the kidnapping. 

In the middle of the day, however, that proved to be a major challenge. By the time he’d rounded the corner that would take him to the station’s door, his shirt was soaked with blood, front and back. He could even smell it, sickeningly evocative. But the scent was not the main contributor to the wild spinning of his head as he lurched along the sidewalk, now in plain view, using his hooked arm to steady himself against the outer wall of the building. There were exclamations from blurred faces, some garbled words that could only be offers of help. Killian continued forward with a dazed sort of determination. Emma. He had to reach Emma. She would heal him, and then it wouldn’t matter that he had forgotten what had happened or what he needed to tell her…

His shoulder crashing into the door kept him upright long enough to fumble the knob open with fingers dyed crimson. Some onlookers had their phones to their ears, pointlessly tying up emergency lines: he’d be healed in just a few more seconds. Killian followed the swing of the door inside with just as much of a parabola to his path; his hook, wrapped around the handle, supported most of his weight.

Emma waited just inside. She had David with her. Bloody hell; that wasn’t good.

“Swan,” Killian croaked. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Emma clawed at his hand, trying to see…

The sudden, white-hot bolt through his side somehow brought the plot back with surprising clarity. And the lump in his throat was not fully attributable to pain as he blurted the horrific lie to his father-in-law. His best friend.

“They’ve taken her,” he gritted out. The corners of the room were growing dark, as if the boiling clouds of a Dark Curse were rising from the four walls. “I’m so sorry. They’ve taken Hope.”

Perhaps it was a mercy that the ashes consumed him then, sparing him the sight of David’s very real reaction.

*****

Floor.

Pain.

David.

A kidnapping?

“Lie back, Killian; you’re hurt.”

Swan?

“...she can’t heal you…”

_Shit._

Medics.

Lies.

_Were_ they lies?

Reassurances. A promise. So much guilt.

Ambulance.

Hospital.

_Bloody hell._

*****

Killian had been feigning sleep for the past half-hour. Emma was there, sounding dazed as she interacted on his behalf with various visitors and medical staff. In between the phone calls, of course. Guilt gnawed at him for leaving her to deal with the chaos alone, but he feared the blasted drugs coursing through his veins would cause him to say something that would give the game away. Although, if he was lucid enough for that to be a concern, perhaps he could trust himself not to say something he would regret.  
  
He had been mostly awake for Dr. Whale’s report to Emma: the physician had sounded confident that Killian would make a full recovery, as long as he could avoid infection. Apparently, the Crocodile’s blade had done no damage to any vital organs. Not that Killian would ever thank him for his precision.

Since then, Emma had been dealing with concerned friends anxious to begin the hunt for the allegedly kidnapped Hope. Impressive, how she handled it all. It sounded as if she had sent people to their house to search, not yet having heard the agreed-upon story that Killian would tell. Those eager volunteers would find no clues there, but it would keep them occupied and seem plausible enough of an effort that, in a real scenario, Emma could feel justified in keeping Killian company until he “woke up.” So much deception already, and it was only fated to get worse.

Finally, enough of a period of silence convinced Killian that he and Emma were alone. He shifted carefully under the covers and peeled his eyes open. Emma got to her feet, wearing a relieved yet concerned expression. After confirming that they were truly unsupervised, Killian indulged in a weary sigh, winced, and smiled sheepishly at his wife.

“What the hell?” she hissed.

Killian scowled and was immediately reminded of the cuts and bruises decorating his face. “The bloody Dark One took it upon himself to provide you with a genuine shock. Believe me, being gutted was _not_ part of the plan.”

Now at his side, Emma brushed some hair from his forehead. “Thought he was trying to change.”

“Apparently, justifying stabbing an old enemy as ‘for his own good’ is exempt from Dark One Rehabilitation.”

He stretched, grimaced, then asked, 

“What the bloody hell is going on with your magic? Did I not hallucinate the part where David told me you've lost your healing abilities?”

Emma made a face. “Nope, not a dream. Sorry.”

“Bloody awful timing,” growled Killian. “The Vocivore, do you think?”

“I can't think of any other reason. Regina, too,” she added to forestall his possible next question. She continued to stroke his hair. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to hear the majority of Whale's self-important speech."

"So you know he wants you to at least stay overnight."

"Aye," he sighed. "Sorry, love; I didn't intend for you to have to handle the tumult on your own."

She shrugged. "It may be better this way. Less chance for either of us to give something away. Speaking of which... it might be time to start spreading the story." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Assuming we're still going through with this..."

"No question." Somehow, he managed to sound more determined than he felt. "After all, we can't allow the Crocodile to stab me for naught. It may simply take a bit longer before I’m capable of…” Killian swallowed and forced himself to finish the thought. “...Facing the monster’s attentions."

A skeptical Emma gave him a once-over, taking in the gruesome state of his face as well as the thick bandage on his side that was apparent even under the blanket. "Maybe we can work something out with Rumplestiltskin; send you back through and make him heal you."

Killian nodded sullenly. "It would be the least of what he owes me. Though we then run the risk of exposing our plot to everyone. Monster included."

"Hmm. We'll have to think about that one." She leaned down and placed a gentle, careful kiss on his forehead. "Need anything?"

"No thank you, love. I'll likely just sleep."

She nodded. "That would be good. I'll tell people it's the drugs."

Emma made sure his call button was within reach, gave him one more tender caress, and headed for the door.

"Good luck," called Killian after her.

Time for more lies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THE PERFECT fanart by the wonderful sancocnutclub is available for chapter 23 ( & 7) on tumblr! It is the BEST visual I could ever ask for to accompany this chapter! Go check it out: "Dear Tripod 4," search the tag "attacked by dear old croc'dile" IT'S AMAZING!1!1!11!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING!**
> 
> **THIS "BONUS" CHAPTER GOES QUITE A BIT FURTHER INTO THE NON-CON ELEMENTS OF THE MASTER'S RELATIONS WITH KILLIAN. Farther than I had originally planned and warned about in the beginning. I did my best to avoid being TOO descriptive, but it's still fairly evident what is taking place. You can safely skip this chapter if you aren't interested in that sort of thing.**

_**Present (Friday, early morning)…** _

If there had once been a time when the animal impulses drove Killian’s response to _this_ \--any physical response fully against his will, that only served to make it all so much less bearable--it was simply out of the question now. He had neither the blood nor the energy to spare.

It hurt less than it used to; both a blessing and a curse, in light of the double objectives of the creature above. That usually meant that his Master satisfied only one of its cravings at a time. Signifying more torture to come. In this particular Session, considering the number of days the Vocivore had gone without, Killian could only resign himself to extra brutality on both counts.

Killian’s Master stilled, electing to delay the end. He could sense its pleasure and its need, how it was deliberately controlling its passions for the sake of savoring each sensation. Two of its six legs held him in an inescapable embrace, and their jagged tips dug into his lower back with bruising force.

“My Tripod does not struggle much today,” remarked his Master as a tentacle caressed his jawline. Remorseful tears gathered in Killian's eyes. He knew that was a bad sign but could not remember why. The thought that he was failing to please his Master drowned out most other concerns.

“I'm sorry, Master,” croaked Killian. An unpleasant twinge elicited a wince and the beginnings of a short-lived squirm, but that only made everything hurt, and he could not continue.

“It is, perhaps, that you are unaccustomed to providing a means for me to break my fast.” It settled lower, deeper, and Killian choked back a sob. 

It had come for him before the sun was up, before the birds had even begun a timid dawn greeting. He had been awake already, despite his weariness; too much pain plus the falling overnight temperatures had combined to drag him out of what little rest he'd been able to manage. So he'd been awake to hear the menacing scuttle of those pointy legs on the barn floor, to feel the dread when the shadowy hulk loomed over the entrance to his stall, reaching in with a glistening tentacle to unlock his chains and drag him to his feet.

There was meant to have been something different about this morning. Something he was going to do... Something... he was _commanded_ to do? Yet his Master gave no hint.

He'd followed it to the best of his ability on an ankle swollen and brittle, every step tearing at the fragile clots formed around deeply buried staples. He'd made it as far as the cemetery before collapsing, and then his Master had taken him up in its arms, folding him into lung-crushing portability, carrying him inside with an effortless tenderness, and for once, all concern over the future faded into the background and he went limp, surrendering fully to the being rightfully in ownership of his body and mind.

The jarring landing as he'd been deposited onto the stones at the foot of the stairs had awakened some sense, reminding him of his imminent suffering. In unison with the creature positioning itself above him, strange but familiar words had haunted his mind.

_Dead, gone hope._ No... _No hope._

Now, crouched and shivering with anticipatory glee, Killian's Master continued to stroke him. Its tentacle trailed along his neck, upper chest, and shoulder, pausing at the two parallel lines of outstandingly sloppy sutures, worse even than Z’s. The tentacle tip prodded the fresh injuries as if trying to remember their origin, and Killian held his breath without fully knowing why. After a moment's hesitation, it returned its attentions to his bare throat.

“Tell me, Tripod, do you wonder why it is I have not yet replaced the collar stolen from you by the humans?”

Killian swallowed and tried not to cringe away from all of the unwanted petting and probing. “Yes, Master.”

A disturbing smile crossed the alien face; it was plainly quite excited by its current train of thought. The creature straightened suddenly, allowing him to fall, empty and bleeding, onto the cold floor. Killian grunted as a lungful of air left him in a whoosh. Almost instantly, the bulky figure was at the top of the stairs and heading for a damaged lectern near the wall. Its slave could do nothing but lie there, anxious and in pain.

“How I missed you while you were away,” mused the Vocivore, reaching into the hollow structure as it spoke. “Yet my time was not spent pining after you; nor was it passed in idleness.”

Killian could not crane his neck far enough to see all of the bits and pieces being retrieved from the lectern; neither did he particularly want to. In any case, his Master had collected its desired implements and was skittering back down the steps in short order. It placed the equipment nearby before quickly returning to its previous position. _All facets_ of that position, resumed with brutal efficiency. Killian whined and squirmed feebly for a moment. 

“It is a pity you do not derive the same pleasure from our connection as I do,” breathed Killian's Master, holding quite still as it savored the bliss washing over it. A tentacle nudged a bit of unresponsive flesh in demonstration. “It would be one portion of repayment for all I feel in gratitude.”

Without further ruminations, the Vocivore selected a collar from the scattered items on the floor.

OPEN YOUR EYES, TRIPOD.

Killian had not realized he’d closed them. Reluctantly, he obeyed, catching sight of the familiar ring of metal, but there were several differences with this one. Four small holes had been drilled along the collar’s circumference, not quite evenly spaced. Opposite the padlock, a bulky box was affixed to the outside, almost a seamless part of the collar, but not quite. Perhaps five centimeters wide, two high, and two deep, it appeared to be made of black plastic, with a slot along the inside through which the collar could slide. 

Seeing that Killian had gotten a good enough chance to inspect the new collar, his Master leaned forward to fasten and lock the device in place around his neck. With a small, delighted shiver at Killian's renewed little wiggles, the creature retrieved what looked like a computer cable, which it plugged into the collar’s black box.

Panting with sudden dread, Killian envisioned waves of electricity coursing through him, scalding him and ripping open wounds as his muscles contracted in an agonizing tetany, not even considering the fact that, with the way he was “connected” to his Master right now, the monster would likely be similarly affected.

“One of your fellow Voices assisted me in this design,” explained his Master. It did not seem to notice Killian's distress, except as heightened pleasure from more exaggerated struggling. “Its purpose is straightforward, though difficult in execution.”

A pincer was busy checking the security of the cord snaking between the collar and a tablet-like device on the floor. After accomplishing that, the next item to be selected came into view.

It was a black sphere, its size somewhere between a golf ball and a billiard ball. One half was covered by a fine metal grating reminiscent of the windscreen on a microphone; out of the other protruded a wire similar to that which adorned his collar. Dangling from the interface between mesh and plastic were two straps with buckles on their ends.

“I have long desired a means by which I might extract and capture scream energy, to sustain me when my supply of Voices runs low. Or, in your case, to revisit long after you have expired.”

His Master's unoccupied tentacle abruptly forced its way into Killian's mouth, tasting of filth and blood and stinging acid.

_OPEN._

Killian's jaw snapped open automatically, the reaction an instant, unsettling obedience that required no consideration on his part. But wait. He was meant to have some say in this, somehow. Something that, up until now, gave him some semblance of choice?

His Master removed its tentacle and roughly shoved the ball in its place. The mesh scraped along Killian's teeth with a raspy buzz, forcing his jaw to its very limits to accommodate its diameter. Breathing in frantic gasps through his nose, Killian fought rising panic. His Master would think nothing of breaking teeth or dislocating his jaw; indeed, either of those occurrences might serve as a bonus. But he was powerless to resist this new invasion. All of his limbs were pinioned, excessive movement only heightened every pain... and his Master willed for him to accept the device.

_No hope?_ What subconscious part of him demanded that he remember those words?

The ball lodged behind his teeth, and he could feel the straps at the corners of his mouth. His Master hummed in satisfaction, quick to cinch and secure the buckles behind his head. Killian moaned unintelligibly; the Vocivore sighed in delight.

“You please me greatly, Tripod. Such an agreeable way to begin the day.”

Killian's Master stretched leisurely, then sank back down, enjoying the muffled grunts of its gagged slave. Then it resumed its earlier explanation.

“Of course, a simple recording is worthless to me. It can never capture the full essence of the scream; that which I draw my strength from. But I am hopeful that this technique might.”

It connected the second cord to the tablet at its feet, while Killian focused on remaining as still and calm as possible. Already he could feel saliva pooling at the back of his throat, and he wasn't certain he would be able to swallow with the ball holding his mouth open so wide. His current discomfort was almost enough to distract him from the horror of the upcoming pain... in whatever form it would take...

Leaning sideways, and seizing the opportunity for another sneaky little bob of its lower half, Killian’s Master scooped something small from the floor.

“I am most eager to try the theory and its application out on you, favored one. You shall be my first test subject.”

Shifting yet again, his Master wrapped a tentacle around the collar saying,

“This device, here, must be precisely aligned in order to function. Among other things, it tracks every slight movement of your throat. Therefore, Tripod, I must insist upon a reliable method of securing the collar in position.”

Killian felt a tiny prick in the side of his neck, toward the back, right in the center of the strip of metal encircling the flesh there. Aligned with one of the holes he’d spotted earlier. He had time for only one sputtering, wordless curse before his neck exploded into a twisting, ripping pain that radiated up to his eardrum and all the way down to his scapula. He thrashed weakly, prevented from reaching toward the raw anguish, alternately sobbing wordless pleas and choking on aspirated drool. His Master applied more torque; the flames burned hotter. Then the creature rapidly withdrew itself, releasing a mournful sigh. Its pincer still trapped Killian's wrist so that he could not touch the excruciating, pulsing burn in his neck.

“You know I prefer it when you face me,” stated his Master in a calm tone, just barely audible above Killian's whimpering coughs. “But, alas, it seems I must forego that pleasure today. Up on your knees, Tripod. Clear your airway, free those screams.”

All restraint temporarily lifted, Killian's hand flew to his newest wound, brushing against protruding metal before being swatted roughly away.

_NO._

Tears rolled down his temples as a shuddering Killian attempted to push himself up. The unavoidable use of the pierced neck muscles hurt like the devil. He made it as far as his elbows before needing to take a break, but his impatient Master gripped him by his neck and torso and hauled him to a seated position. For an instant, Killian was more concerned with the carousel spin of the sanctuary than the pressure spiking his neck. 

“I grow weary of waiting,” growled Killian's Master, prodding his shoulder in a silent instruction. Still woozy, Killian nevertheless summoned the strength to obey; if he didn't, the reaction would likely be damaging and very painful. As he struggled over onto his knees and hand, he continued to hack, most of the air exploding out through his nose, but now that he was upright, at least the drool could dribble out down his chin and not into his windpipe. 

He spied a mountain of short, wickedly pointed screws on the paving stones, each with flat wings attached to their heads like the winding mechanism of a clockwork toy. He cringed as he settled into position, anticipating feeling each one burrowing itself into his neck as the first had done.

Without warning, his Master was pressed up against him, exploring him as it checked the cables leading to the recording device. Once positioned to its satisfaction and assured of its continued experiment, it grabbed one of the remaining screws. Killian squeezed his eyes shut.

“Three more, Tripod. Let's aim for highest-quality screams, shall we?”

*****

It took nearly the entire Session for Killian to come back to his senses, four screws in his neck working somehow to drive the Master’s influence away. For the time being, at least. Gods, he had nearly vanished for good. He'd have surrendered completely to that bastard's will, forgetting family, forgetting self and plan… he would have died a pointless death, alone, soulless and without knowing. If that wasn't enough to solidify his resolve, then what was?

Of course, he had no hope of surviving it. _No hope._ No hope that the plan would even have success. _No hope,_ even though this Session, while excruciating, had not left him any more hobbled than he'd been going into it. _No hope,_ despite the remarkable lack of additional blood loss to weaken him. It would be foolish to hope, dangerous to dream, and so he didn't. While the Master took its pleasure, and Killian lost his voice in service to its experiment, he clung desperately to his reacquired reality.

At some point, the microphone gag was removed, releasing a partial collection of pink-tinged slobber and enabling him to swallow the rest. The collar remained, though. Killian did not waste the energy to try and clean off the corners of his mouth and chin; instead, he rested as far back on his haunches as his damaged ankle would allow and worked to clear the congestion from his lungs. The Master was fiddling with its equipment, checking to see if the recording had been successful; Killian didn’t give a damn as long as it kept its hands, tentacles, and claws away from him.

“Go and get yourself cleaned up now, Tripod. The number of Exchanges you have earned will be determined by the quality of my results.”

The implication of those words was that the Master wanted to see Killian again that day. Making up for lost time. Killian felt hugely nauseated at the thought. 

“Yes, Master,” he whispered. Yet there he stayed, on his knees, spent and unable to rise.

He would skip the useless stop at Z’s. There was just no benefit in it now, not even to seek out the sloppy self-treatment he could attempt. It would only consume a precious portion of what little time he had left. If he succeeded in leaving this chamber, his last remaining strength would be given in initiating their final desperate scheme. Whether it worked remained to be seen, but Killian did not doubt that this would be his last-gasp effort. Their last chance to make any of this worth it.

In the end, the Master had to haul Killian up off of his knees and turn him, unsteady on his feet, toward the front door. 

“Your dedication is touching.” 

Killian could sense a hint of impatience in the monster’s tone. 

“However, I did give you an order.”

GO NOW, TRIPOD. I LOOK FORWARD TO YOUR RETURN.

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**AN: COCOHOOK38 HAS OUTDONE HERSELF AGAIN! If you would like to see an ASTOUNDING visual of the cathedral, a broken Killian and his Master looming over him, GO CHECK OUT SANCOCNUTCLUB on tumblr! "Dear Tripod #1" SOOOO BEAUTIFUL!!!!!!**


	25. Chapter 25

_**4 weeks ago...** _

Deception never got any easier; in fact, as the week dragged on, the lies grew more complicated, with additional details to try and remember. Who knew what. What each of them had told someone else. Killian and Emma were forced to have comprehensive debriefings with each other several times a day. When they could find a moment alone, that is.

The tension, the arguing… that had been Emma’s idea, the day he came home from the hospital. And she hadn’t warned him beforehand, either; maybe as payback for the shock of seeing him stumble into her office with an unexpected stab wound, even though that part wasn’t his fault. Regardless, her emotional outburst with Jones as witness--and partial victim--sounded impressively real. Killian wondered if a small part of her was actually angry at him for suggesting the plan in the first place. That night, while helping him tend to the painful rows of sutures in his flank, she had offered words of quiet apology, which Killian assured her weren’t necessary.

From then on, their charade had required the inclusion of biting remarks and frosty silences, adding to the discomfiture of all onlookers. Increasingly, Killian found himself unable to meet the eyes of anyone he interacted with; his days as a villain had not prepared him to sustain such a devastating deception in front of people he actually cared about. They were trying to comfort him, going out of their way to be sure he was taken care of, trying to bolster his spirits and show him their love, and all he was doing in return was prolonging the suffering they kept stoically private. If he looked them in the face, he would see the tears behind Snow’s brave smile. The desperation masked by David’s gruff words of optimism. The helplessness on Henry’s face every time he softly asked his mother what she needed.

More and more, Killian was becoming convinced that he had the easy job, going to face the monster. Emma would be left to continue the falsehoods alone. Physical torture may yet prove easier to bear.

*****

One week after the surprise stabbing, Killian limped along a garden path in an unfamiliar realm, straining to hear--yet dreading--the sound of a playful three-year-old in the vicinity. The cottage lay just up ahead, at the outer limits of his ability to walk even with six days of recovery time behind him.

Storybrooke slept, gifted with hours left until the dawn of Day 7. It had been early even by Killian’s standards when he’d awakened in a spiraling terror, the charade weaving seamlessly into his nightmares, and he knew he would never get back to any semblance of a peaceful rest. 

To a greater extent each day, the wound was becoming a convenient excuse. A plausible reason for him to avoid taking that awful next step, the plunge into torment that was their whole motive for emotionally torturing their loved ones. If he'd been sound, who knew how long it would have taken him to work up the nerve to go. Maybe the extra time was making it harder; maybe he could have already been through it all and come out the other side by now. But it was a moot point when he was limited to hobbling mere yards before needing a break. And so, in order to banish the temptation to carry on in indefinite, dread-tinged delay, he had to eliminate the obstacle.

He’d been a coward, in the end, unable to face a proper goodbye. The last glimpse of his slumbering wife he would take with him into Hell. The note he’d left her-- _I love you, my Swan, for all eternity_ \--could only bring her anguish on the morrow. But it was time to go, and their shared pain would help to shield him from a frighteningly perceptive monster.

First things first, though. Killian knocked on a carved wooden door, tucking his hookless wrist behind his back as he awaited a response.

Bless Smee and his side business. With the uniting of the Realms, there wasn’t much call for magic beans anymore, but the former first mate still tended the beanstalk in his backyard with all the devotion integral to his character. Killian and Emma may have been his first customers in three years; they made sure to tip him well. Later, they’d even tossed around the idea of somehow smuggling a bean into the Vocivore’s presence and then simply opening a portal right underneath the monster, but eventually decided that its telepathic powers would give it full control of the portal’s destination. The idea was shelved for a last-ditch effort, if all else failed.

Belle opened the door with a pleasant smile. “Killian! Welcome back! Hope’s gone for a nap, but I can go get her if--”

“No!” Killian exclaimed, then added sheepishly, “Thank you, love. She can be a right little terror if she misses out, and I’m not here to collect her just yet.”

Belle nodded her understanding, and his heart wept. He wanted more than anything to see his daughter and ensure her safety after so many days of pretending otherwise. To tell her once again how much he loved her… in case he never got another chance. But he held firm in his decision. For one thing, he didn’t have the time. Every minute spent in this realm translated into an hour back in Storybrooke. In the short amount of time he’d taken to walk from the portal to the cottage, Swan would have likely already risen and discovered his absence. He needed to get this business taken care of and get out of there as quickly as possible. 

Additionally, if he had just seen Hope, the monster may somehow pick up on that. It was better to have the real feelings of missing her and of prolonged separation when he surrendered himself.

Later today.

Killian shuddered slightly, then plastered on a fake, cordial grin. “Is your husband around, by any chance? I have a favor to ask of him.”

“Uh, yeah, he was just…”

As if drawn by magnetism, Rumple chose that moment to materialize near the shed in the corner of the yard, and Belle gestured in his direction. “Just there, in fact.”

Killian thanked his friend before hobbling back the way he’d come. The Dark One was waiting near a morning glory vine, wearing an overly polite smile for his wife’s sake, which promptly dissolved into an expression of strained acknowledgement as soon as the cottage door clicked shut.

“Back so soon, Captain?”

“I haven’t the time for games, Crocodile,” growled Killian. He lifted his shirt to reveal the unbandaged stab wound in his side. “The blasted magical barrier has expanded to include all of Storybrooke. For once, have the decency to do the right thing without a calculation of how it can benefit you.”

Rumple broke into a wicked smirk. “Heal you for your appointment with the Vocivore? That seems rather futile, seeing as you’ll soon be sporting countless other injuries just like it…”

“That’s exactly the point and you know it.” Killian stepped closer, seething with enough frustration to partially mask the dread threatening to overwhelm him. “I have to start out as strong as possible to have any chance at surviving long enough to--”

“Spare me the sniveling,” sighed Rumple. “If it rids me of your unwanted company for the afternoon…”

He made a casual gesture with his fingers, and Killian was knocked back a step with the unexpected force of the dark magic crashing into him. If Emma’s healing was like an effervescent champagne spilling over the rim of a bottle, Rumple’s was the cork unstoppered, all explosive velocity with nothing gentle about it. Invisible iron fingers gripped half-knitted flesh, mashing separated fibers together until they had no choice but to bond, yanking and practically melting individual layers of dermis into a functional protective coat. 

Effective… but excruciating.

If jet lag were possible between realms with different time rates, Killian would have self-diagnosed as suffering the effects of it. The thirty seconds spent enduring the healing magic of his foe felt like the half hour that had elapsed in Storybrooke during that time. And when the invasive power fled with just as much force as it had plowed into him, Killian only barely managed to avoid toppling sideways. He dripped with sweat, unable to get enough air.

“No charge,” sneered Rumple as he pushed past the doubled-over pirate. “It will be worth it to hear tales of your… experiences... with the monster.”

He was gone before Killian could summon the breath for a bitter reply.


	26. Chapter 26

_**4 weeks ago, continued...** _

Though Killian had been expecting their appearance for almost an hour now, the dull-eyed slaves materializing from the bushes still took him by surprise. Armed with crude clubs and blades, they showed no emotion as a dozen surrounded him. Killian could pick out the signs of ownership on each one and tried to quell rising panic. Fear was okay, but his feigned desperation had to dominate, had to thoroughly convince the monster of his surrender. Or he would very likely be killed before learning anything of value.

He thought of his precious Hope. Not as the light of his life, the flawless jewel with her father’s charm and her mother’s will. Not as motivation, comfort, or eponymous hope. But exactly the last thing he would ever consciously wish to think: his daughter, his own, in the arms of a stranger. Wailing for her parents, unable to comprehend what was happening to her. Being… being _hurt._ Killian’s insides churned at the vision, but he forced himself to conjure all of the horrifying details. Hurt, tortured… then killed. He could see her innocent little form, lying unnaturally still and cold, discarded like week-old rubbish and left to rot, with none to care.

Real tears filled Killian’s eyes as he held his arms out in surrender. “Please… take me to your Master.”

*****

It looked like a normal village at first glance. One that Hook and his crew might have frequented on their commissioned excursions to the Enchanted Forest. Apart from the gas lamps and old-fashioned electric lines, that is. Wilting flowers lined walkways, early model automobiles sat in front of select houses. But the further the trek toward the village center, the closer one looked, the more signs of unsettling decay. Broken windows… so many broken windows. Rotting, moss-covered shingles on roofs. Trash everywhere. And were those… yes, definitely bodies hunched in gutters, motionless, dressed in the same rags as everyone else. Killian could not tell whether they were dead or alive.

Near the center of the village loomed a worn down cathedral. Its bell tower had lost one wall; Killian half expected it to tilt and then collapse at any second. Most of the church’s paint was peeling, and none of its stained-glass windows were entirely intact. A spooky graveyard huddled at the northern edge of the property. And it was to this forbidding building that his escorts were taking him.

Just before passing through the outer doors, the slaves closest Killian inched nearer and took his arms in their shaky grasp. Fearing he would flee? Or perhaps attack their Master? Killian had not come armed; he had even left his hook at home, much as it pained him to do so. But still, compared to the rest of the creatures around him, he posed an undeniable threat, being of such sound mind and body.

Killian allowed the manhandling without a struggle. He _wanted_ to be here, he reminded himself as fear and the natural instinct to fight threatened to overwhelm him. This monster may have Hope. He must confront it. He had to find out what would be required to free his little girl.

They entered through heavy wooden doors, one of which hung just slightly askew and would not close all the way. On the other side, dusty sunlight and the strong odor of mildew. As Killian’s eyes adjusted, he noted long pews jumbled along the edges of the sanctuary, leaving a large open space in the middle, the center of which was split by a strip of blood red carpet. The rest was scuffed paving stone. At the top of three stairs, crouching in relaxation before a wooden altar, waited the Vocivore.

The slaves became even more timid and hopeless in their Master’s presence, their tremors increasing until Killian’s shoulders rattled in their sockets. But they seemed compelled to drag Killian closer, whether or not they would be able to keep to their feet by the end of the journey. They staggered along the carpet, Killian stumbled right along with them… and the monster rose as it spoke, its words accompanied by soft cooing from above.

“What’s this?”

The strikingly unremarkable quality of the voice sent a shudder down Killian’s spine. So wrong. This… half-crab-half-spider creature ought to have a booming voice, or a watery clicking dialect, or _something._ Not sound like a middle-aged, white-collar employee exchanging bland pleasantries with a coworker.

Killian’s gut was twisted in so many knots he would need an age to smooth them all out. Here was the test. His mettle, acting skills, and Rumple’s information versus this unknown being. Call his bluff, reveal the charade, and the creature would end his life now.

Well… why should he care, unless he could get Hope back? Without her, Emma would surely never forgive him, and he may as well die.

_Hope, kidnapped. Hope, tortured. Hope, dead._

Killian swallowed with a dry mouth as desperation welled. Anger or pleading?

“Where’s my daughter, you bastard!?” He jerked in his captors’ grip, pulling one off balance. The slave collapsed to the floor and didn’t get up, assuming immediately a position of humble groveling. Killian nearly rolled his eyes, but instead yanked his other arm free and marched toward the monster, who seemed quite nonplussed by the disturbance.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My _daughter,_ ” hissed Killian again. “Your bloody slaves took her; I want her back.”

The monster’s set of beady little eyes were cold and calculating as it studied Killian in silence. The pirate could not help a shudder of revulsion; those eyes were enough to give anyone arachnophobia. Finally, the Vocivore spoke.

“I’ve been watching, you know. I know who you are.”

The spike of fear was dangerous now, threatening to betray how much Killian knew of the beast… and how much he _didn’t._ Watching, how? Did it know of the conspiracy? Could it actually read thoughts? Was it toying with him now, feeding off of his panic before ordering his death?

“You've made attempts to come here before. To stop me. You and your friends. Isn’t that right? But now you give yourself to me without a fight?”

_Hope, kidnapped. Hope, tortured. Hope, dead._ “Please… my daughter…” Killian averted his eyes, his voice breaking. Desperation…

“I’ve never had a willing slave before. I do wonder what it would taste like…” The monster clicked forward on its spiky legs, a fearful scuttling noise accompanying its trip down the stairs. Killian sucked a few quick breaths, took a single step backward, balled his hand at his side.

“A… a trade, then. Myself for her. Set her free, return her to her mother… and you can have me.”

The monster loomed, and Killian gave in to another instinctive backwards step. Gods, this thing was huge. Killian’s eyeline barely reached the top button of its waistcoat.

“Take off your clothes.”

Killian blinked. A massive chill took his limbs. _Rumors of other appetites…_

“I want to examine what it is I’m purchasing.”

REMOVE YOUR GARMENTS.

The silent voice shouted in his head. Sinister, commanding… but not compelling. Not quite. Doubtless, the monster’s method of controlling its slaves; Killian might have been grateful that he could hear it, were he allowing such an emotion. Not obeying an order given telepathically would have been a lethal giveaway of his immunity.

Killian lost himself in the gruesome conjured images of his daughter as he stripped. But it was almost unnecessary: terror, helplessness, despair, all a nuance away from genuine. He was dimly aware of the other slaves still in attendance, but their emotionless stares were of little concern. Shuddering uncontrollably, Killian gulped as he stepped out of his last layer of clothing. Less than half of the resulting gooseflesh could be attributed to cold.

The spider-crab ogled him thoughtfully, its collection of eyes roaming his naked form. Killian gritted his teeth and waited. A massive claw came up and indicated a turn in an absurdly human gesture. Killian obediently rotated despite every instinct howling at him not to show his back to the enemy. He heard the scuttle-clatter and stiffened, every muscle going tight with dread.

MOST ACCEPTABLE.

A smooth, cool touch to his shoulder blade. Killian flinched, startled and revolted. He felt as if his heart would hammer free of its cage and burst forth like a liberated songbird. The caress trailed down his arm to the abrupt ending at the wrist, coiling around the stump in a gentle embrace.

“My new slave has only three legs,” stated the monster quietly. Not a taunt, merely an observation. With a cautious glance downward, Killian caught a glimpse of a thick, violet tentacle snaked around his wrist. A second unexpectedly poked at his back, tracing an old scar and seeming to almost taste the memory there. “And he carries the evidence of former masters.”

“Do we have a deal?” Killian choked out through a throat thick with fear and rage. The tentacle across his skin suddenly extruded a sticky slime, leaving a trail of fire tracing the silvery scar. Drawing in a breath, his back arching in surprise, Killian barely managed to hold his ground.

“You are mine, one way or another,” the monster said. The tentacle wormed its way along Killian’s ribs, under his arm, and across his chest, raising a burning welt wherever it touched. “We shall see. Please me… and I will tell you what I know about your daughter.”

Clever bugger, making it sound as if it would impart information, when really, what it knew amounted to zero. Killian lowered his head and hunched his shoulders in dejected submission. He nodded once, minutely, giving himself up. It's what they wanted, after all.

I DESIRE YOUR SCREAMS.

With a tug on his blunted wrist, the monster directed Killian to face forward again. It released both tentacles and they retracted beneath its waistcoat. 

“Now, Tripod, the rules. You will address me as ‘Master.’ You will obey my every command. In return, I will provide shelter and sustenance, medical care when required. Please me enough, and I may one day reward you. Fail me in any way, and you will regret it.”

“And when--”

With startling speed, the creature’s pincer whipped sideways and caught him in the mouth. Killian instantly tasted blood as his lower lip was driven against his teeth. He staggered backward, but the unoccupied claw shot forward and clamped around his elbow, pinching painfully without yet breaking the skin.

“I don’t need your words, Tripod.” The monster produced a gleaming silver ring from the slanted surface of the altar and roughly fastened it around Killian’s neck as he closed his eyes in unhappy resignation. “Only your screams.”

The collar snapped together with a sharp click, secured with a padlock and uncomfortably snug beneath his Adam’s apple. He immediately felt the overwhelming urge to rub his hand along his throat, to push away the obstruction, to pull it off, wrestle with it until the sensation of near-strangulation eased. But a tentacle had hold of his wrist now, preventing any sort of resistance. Killian sought calm.

“Do you understand?”

Killian nodded quietly, eyes still closed. The claw around his arm tightened to an excruciating vise, cutting deep, precisely pinching the nerve running down his forearm and setting alight phantom conflagrations in nonexistent fingers. Struggling did not help; if anything, the grip intensified until blood welled and trickled down the madly tingling stump. Taking a wild guess at the desired response, Killian growled,

“Yes, Master.”

Lazily, the claw relaxed; Killian could feel the solid chitin shifting within his flesh. Spurts of blood accompanied its removal, but the pirate slave was not allowed to reach across to staunch the wound. The insulted nerve continued to jangle long after the pressure released. Breathing hard, Killian waited, trying not to think of anything.

The monster cleaned its claw on a handkerchief, saying,

“One of _those,_ I see. Let me just warn you now: prolonged or exaggerated stoicism benefits neither of us. But I do appreciate the honesty, because false screams are just as useless to me.” It made an incomprehensible signal to one of the skulking slaves, who jumped to do his Master’s bidding. “Don’t worry too much, though. Once we get acquainted, I’ll know how best to extract the highest-quality shrieks from you.”

It had the gall to wink then, half of its soulless black eyes flickering briefly closed, and Killian struggled to restrain himself from flying forward in foolish defiance. That wasn’t _this_ Killian. This Killian had only one thought on his mind: his daughter.

_Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead._

“The branding never fails to give me a taste of a new slave; there’s little doubt it will be the same for you. But it takes a while to be readied.”

Killian shuddered. A hot surge of panicked resistance grabbed him by the throat, constricting painfully. He’d had no delusions about being able to escape the process: not one of the bodies lacked the vicious, eye-shaped symbol seared into their palms. He had not allowed himself to dwell on it then, fearing he would lose his nerve. Damage to his only hand was always a terrifying prospect… and one he would have no choice but to face very soon.

Abruptly, he was yanked forward by the tentacle still holding him, and he crashed hard onto his knees. His small grunt of pain echoed around the cavernous chamber.

“While we wait, I always like to take the time to become better acquainted. Test your limits, find out what gets to you. Call it an appetizer. Something to whet my appetite before the main course. Shall we begin?”

Frantically steeling himself for whatever was about to happen, Killian had carelessly tuned out the monster’s unremarkable droning. He realized too late that he’d been asked a question. Hastily, he drew a breath to blurt a “Yes, Master,” but he was too slow. A powerful claw slammed into the side of his head with enough force to rattle teeth and invert colors. Reeling, Killian thrust out his stump in the expectation of sizzling pain when he caught himself… only to find himself suspended in a crazy tilt, the whole side of his head ablaze. It took several heartbeats to remember which way was up. And in that time, the madly pulsing fire coalesced into one lone curl of agony: his ear. He was being held up by his ear, and the crackle of shifting cartilage sounded like pistol shots, and Killian nearly vomited when he felt further rending of flesh from its attachment point.

With a breathless whimper, Killian scrambled to center his weight, to get his knees under himself and regain his balance. As he struggled, the monster tightened its grip and pulled upward, fierce and fast. Killian’s anguished shout was equally short as it was sharp, but the monster shivered with delight, practically purring.

YES.

In his haste to get up, Killian pushed off of a precariously angled foot and ended up with a throbbing sprain of an old injury. He did not care in the slightest: his only focus was relieving the terrible pressure that felt as if it were pulling his ear out by the roots. He raised himself to his tiptoes, standing as tall as possible, but the claw could go higher still. His arms firmly restrained, Killian had no way to fight the torment. He could barely even breathe; the best he could manage were short, quick little puffs through lungs stretched tight with strain. Tears leaked from eyes screwed shut. Hoarsely, Killian whined,

“Master… _please…_ ”

The claw shifted slightly, pulling a gasp from the helpless pirate. He felt another violent tearing, lower down this time, then all pressure released. Killian wobbled back on his heels; his head slumped forward as he struggled for breath. Warm blood streamed down the side of his neck, spilled over into striking red rivulets down his chest and back.

Killian could not reach up to assess the damage. His ear felt positively shredded, inside and out. He wasn’t certain if he could even hear anymore through that side; the humming throb of inflammation drowned out even the sounds of his raspy panting. The monster stooped casually and trapped what looked like a clot of blood between the tips of its pincer. Dazed, Killian wondered how it managed to be so dexterous with such a massive appendage. Then he wondered what Mr. Krabs--yes, he’d seen Spongebob, with Hope on a Saturday-- _Hope DEAD_ \--wanted with a solid orb of blood. Then he saw a faint shimmer beneath the muddy red slime, and the functioning fraction of his brain identified it as his earring. Oh.

Still disturbingly agile, the monster tucked the crimson earring into a pocket. It noticed Killian, trembling and white with shock, and pursed its inhuman lips.

“No, no passing out on me now. We have a ways to go yet.”

Much more gently this time, it placed a claw on Killian’s shoulder and prodded him down to his knees. The pirate’s head lolled; he was perilously close to doing just that despite the Master’s order. But then too many pointy legs were scuttling closer, the leading pair reaching forward in an unwanted embrace, and adrenaline brought awareness back to his mind. Even though he knew it was useless, Killian tried to shuffle backward on sore knees, but the ever-present tentacles fixed him in place.

“Lie back, my Tripod,” commanded the monster even as it guided Killian back. 

YOU CAN STILL SCREAM FOR ME FROM DOWN THERE.


	27. Chapter 27

_**Present (Friday, continued)...** _

At first, Emma had needed to keep a trash can handy.

Precisely one minute into her husband’s torture sessions, she would feel the beginning rumbles of nausea. Invariably, by minute five at the latest, she had already thrown up at least once.

People thought she was sick with worry and losing sleep over Hope. Never would they guess the kind of turmoil she experienced listening to Killian scream.

For weeks, she stumbled through the day-to-day, hidden earpiece in place, ready to excuse herself at the first sign of activity in Hell. Never knowing when she would need the seclusion necessary to listen for any clue amidst the suffering.

Sometimes, after it was over, she would seek a moment of quiet just to listen to him breathe, to assure herself that he was still alive despite all odds.

In those fruitless, frustrating days, the only time Killian addressed her at all was just before passing out, when the tortures were over for the moment and he could rest. 

“Good night, Swan,” he would say, no matter the time of day, and she would dissolve into tears of helplessness and sorrow.

They had gotten nowhere so far, and how much longer could he survive like that?

Day seven, Henry and Ella had insisted she come over to dinner, and she’d accepted, thinking it safe because Killian had already endured his Session for the day. But a few bites into her pizza, Emma had heard the chaotic signs of the slave guards pulling her hapless husband to his feet, and in a panic, she had rushed to the bathroom without a word of explanation.

That was the day they’d started the brutal “Exchanges” game, where, depending on how satisfied the Master was, Killian would be allowed a certain number of conversational moments, all under the pretense of serving the creature better. Ignoring voices of concern outside the door, Emma cried again, this time with just a dash of relief. They were finally getting somewhere.

In the days that followed, Killian would ask carefully constructed questions, while Emma waited with bated breath only to have the Master dash any possibility of weakness. No, Killian needn't worry; it kept control of its slaves even in the depths of sleep. No, the Master did not fear running out of slaves: as soon as all in this realm had given their lives in devotion, it would move on to a place with fresh screams and start again. No, Tripod, never once had a slave recovered their independence and tried to flee, even those far away on missions. Its control over them was total and permanent.

Emma learned that the Master gleaned more energy from male screams--something to do with the frequency of their vocal vibrations--and so it would probably leave some women and children behind when it moved on. She learned that it had not seen another of its kind for several centuries, and that it could reproduce alone but had not yet found the optimal warm ocean reef required.

She also learned more than she ever wanted to know about the limits of Killian’s tolerance for pain. As the days dragged into weeks, she gained the ability to predict his reactions. How hard a strike would have to fall to elicit a grunt. What his flesh sounded like when it was being torn, sliced, and burned. How much it took to drag out the actual, blood-curdling screams the Master sought. She made herself listen, not daring to miss anything useful that may follow… and feeling that somehow, her invisible presence as witness could give him strength and endurance, if not comfort.

More than half of the Exchanges were the Master asking Killian questions, at first a frustrating reality that felt like a waste of time and anguish. Killian had no choice but to answer truthfully and without hesitation, as proof of his loyalty, and Emma wanted to smack her head into a wall. They were meant to be learning about the Master, not the other way around! But then she recognized an opportunity… if she could plan carefully enough. 

Killian listed places in Storybrooke which would be easy or especially lucrative targets for a raid. In theory, Emma could use this information to post extra guards, prevent the attack, and capture all the slaves. But then she might give away the fact that she was listening in, or somehow make the Master suspicious of Killian. So maybe the best course of action, she decided, was to stock the targets with supplies that could be beneficial to her husband, or at least his fellow slaves: food, medicine, bandages. Additionally, to the best of her ability, she would keep innocent people away from those areas in hopes of preventing injuries or abductions.

The difficulty was that she never knew when the attacks would happen. She couldn’t really justify the warning, “stay away from this particular building for an unspecified amount of time and, oh yeah, I can’t tell you why.” Still, it helped her feel like she was accomplishing something. And related injuries did lessen as a result.

Now, a month into their plot, Emma had stopped throwing up.

It wasn’t as if she had gotten used to it. The sound of every strike still hurt as if done to her instead. But somehow, she’d figured out how to detach from the pain, to sequester it away in order to focus. And finally, she had heard something that brought back the smallest glimmer of hope. Killian was being sent out on a raid. He would be somewhere in Storybrooke, close enough to see, to hold. To rescue.

Except... it hadn’t worked out that way. She’d had to let him go. Return to the Master, the torture, the screams. Dutifully, Emma continued to listen, but with a slightly different purpose now. 

A shell phone conversation with Hope had been the only antidote to the unspeakable things she’d heard that morning. Apparently, the Master had plans of its own. Plans that, by the sound of it, involved added suffering on Killian’s part. He could not possibly endure much longer.

Even as she relayed more of the terrible tale to their new detective ally, Emma listened. The sounds were altered somehow. Less clear. Yet she had become an expert at deciphering the audio. 

Killian was up, moving about to the best of his ability. He had not yet followed the usual routine of seeking treatment from the mysterious Z, and now, his laborious steps seemed to be taking him a far greater distance than the short trek to her location. And that could only mean one thing: it was almost time.


	28. Chapter 28

**_4 weeks ago, continued..._**

If Killian had expected anything like a gradual initiation to… whatever this could be called… he would have been gravely mistaken. The Master’s enthusiastic assessment of its new plaything had certainly been thorough. In addition to the arm and ear wounds--themselves not exactly trivial--Killian now bore matching gashes on each side of his rib cage, a deep, jagged laceration down the back of one thigh, and what looked like ligature marks around the curve of his throat, just below the jawline. That had come from a restraining pincer and very nearly convinced Killian that his life would end right then and there.

Shaky and disoriented with pain and blood loss, the wounded pirate had almost forgotten about the impending branding. Until a trio of slaves approached, one brandishing a red-hot iron before him like a sword. Still flat on his back, Killian caught sight of the implement and moaned softly. He did not think he could bear further torment.

“Close,” the Master said thoughtfully; it looked pleased but nowhere near ecstatic. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

Killian had not yet given voice to a full-throated scream. Grunts, yes; a few groans and growls of pleading. Just the one quick yell while his ear was being mutilated. But he had doubts about his ability to remain quiet in the moments to come. 

“Up now, Tripod. Slowly; I need you awake for this.”

Killian made a few feeble attempts to sit up but ultimately required the forceful assistance of tentacle and claw. As he was yanked to his feet, the crazily spinning sanctuary grew dark, and Killian sagged in his captor’s grip. But a nasty tug on his throbbing ear brought him to with a yelp.

Two of the slaves slid neatly behind their newest comrade, one underneath each arm, allowing their Master to extricate itself. They showed none of the empathy one might expect from beings who had suffered this same fate themselves. Already wincing and pulling as far back as he could, Killian saw the iron change hands from slave to Master.

GIVE ME YOUR HAND.

Killian had experience with this sort of thing. The brutal art of cautery, applied to many a wound when sutures would not do. He imagined he could already feel the searing heat in his palm, torture beyond measure. His knees threatened to give way as he battled overwhelming reluctance. Very slowly, shuddering violently and struggling to breathe past a hardening lump in his throat, Killian raised his arm. Almost of its own accord, his hand tightened into a fist, as if he could prevent the procedure by hiding the desired site.

Impatient, the Master snatched the hesitant arm with its own free claw, inflicting fresh gouges underlining the tattooed _Milah._ Pulling firmly toward its monstrous girth, it easily overpowered Killian’s instinctive attempts to resist. A tentacle coiled tightly around the pirate’s taut wrist to prevent any drawing back. The third slave positioned himself beside Killian, one hand behind his elbow and the other working to peel open the furiously clenched fingers. 

The Master had the iron tilted carefully away from itself, but now that all were in position, it rotated its claw with practiced ease to point the still-glowing symbol down toward the ground. Killian gulped air and shuffled his feet in an effort to steel himself; the slaves holding him interpreted the fidgeting as escape attempts and tightened their grips to impressive levels, given their state of health. 

Anticipating the iron’s excruciating touch, Killian’s heart rate doubled. He screwed his eyes shut and let his head fall back against the nearest bit of restraining slave. He just wanted it over with. The build-up, the imagining: it was half of the horror. The burns would hurt for days afterward… but at least it would be done.

He felt a startling touch against his mangled ear, and his eyes snapped open. As he flinched sideways, his desperate gaze met soulless spider eyes before him.

“I’m going to ask you to watch,” the Master said calmly, as if it were a polite request rather than a cruel order. The iron was only inches from his flesh, close enough to feel the radiating warmth across his palm. Killian forced his eyes to peer down at the soon-to-be-roasted skin, but kept his face turned as far as he feasibly could.

Apparently, the corner-of-the-eye view was acceptable. The Master lowered the branding iron with dignified solemnity, its own multifaceted gaze jumping from task to dread-filled face and back again.

It was a lost cause, trying to obey the order and watch the procedure. Killian saw the first contact, the first wisps of steam rising from the boiling flesh, and then his eyes were glued shut, his limbs and torso tensing with the absolute compulsion to escape. The first wave of infinite agony lanced up his arm, all the heat of a white-hot sun powering through the palm of his hand, turning skin and muscle and bone into molten plasma. 

One second. 

Killian hissed rapid breaths, compelled by reflex to prepare his body for flight. His head jerked back, he collided with the solid mass of bodies behind him. 

Two seconds. 

His struggles became more frantic as the pain grew impossibly worse, engulfing hand, wrist, and forearm in blistering anguish. 

Three seconds. 

Tears wet his face, breaths became choking sobs, struggles weakened. 

Four seconds.

“I need your scream.” A disembodied voice, vibrations dancing in molten hand flesh. Pressure increased, the knife-edged flame burrowing, disintegrating, impaling right through.

Killian screamed.

The echoes were still loud in his head as all support abruptly vanished. Killian dropped to his knees, hunching over the hurt, cradling ashes against his chest.

He may have simply stayed that way for a year, transfixed by anguish and unable to rise. The Master was humming a suggestive, satiated moan, and seemed to have no thought beyond its pleasure achieved. Much as Killian’s single focus was his pain. But then the Master rose majestically, stretched, and shivered, wearing a laconic smile.

“That was delicious. You did well, little Tripod.” 

I SHALL ENJOY MY TIME WITH YOU.

Killian did not move, only shuddered, still breathing hard. His other injuries throbbed and smeared blood over skin and stone; his scalded hand tortured with spasms so tight he felt it must surely implode. A heavy tentacle draped casually across his bowed shoulders, but he couldn’t spare any concern.

“Don't you worry, now. Humans have remarkable healing abilities. I foresee many days of life ahead for you.” The tentacle shifted, pushing its way up under the collar, and suddenly Killian’s attention was divided. Hurt came second to the restricted ability to breathe. He straightened in the hopes that the action would reduce the pressure against his throat.

UP YOU GET.

The Master dragged him back to his feet, and Killian reached for the collar. He was only prevented from grasping hold of the metal when the first twitch of his fingers sent the pain roaring back through his blistered hand. 

The Master must have seen his panic, for it adjusted the tentacle slightly. Once the collar was not cutting quite so deeply into his windpipe, the Master continued,

“I don’t do this for all of my slaves, but you have the makings of something special. I will personally introduce you to Z and make sure she knows how she must treat you.”

With that, it began to scuttle forward, and Killian was forced to stumble alongside. Stars already flickered in the edges of his vision; he feared what would happen if his rubbery legs gave way and he fell. Dragged by the neck, most likely.

A silent retinue of followers trailed master and slave. They seemed to have no purpose, no goal in mind other than to remain in the presence of their Master. A small part of Killian’s mind suddenly felt an absurd shame to be the only unclothed being of the group.

Killian made it as far as the edge of the church property before his first fall. He couldn’t help it; he was rapidly losing strength and awareness. Everything was starting to feel like a very bad dream; only the persistent anguish hinted at the truth. He lost his balance, stumbled, tipped forward. The collar slid up and knocked into the claw marks on his throat. On his knees, Killian did grab the metal this time, crying out when the use of his thumb shifted the blistered mark on his palm. The Master cooed happily at the unexpected bonus and slipped a claw beneath its slave’s limp arm.

“Only a block to go. I would prefer not to carry you.”

It hauled Killian back to his feet, where he swayed with vertigo. Unconcerned, the Master trundled onward, and Killian was pulled into his erratic forward march.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEAUTIFUL COVER ART available on tumblr! sancocnutclub is the BEST! Complete with blood, screams, and a descent into madness! You will want to squeeze him and hold him and comfort him forever! Poor pirate boy! D:


	29. Chapter 29

**_Present (Friday, continued)..._ **

“Crap.” 

Emma shot to her feet, the chair screeching back from the table as if sharing in her distress. Startled, Jones rose as well, though much more stiffly.

“Emma? What’s wrong?”

“It’s now; he’s… come on.”

She raced up the stairs with Jones following as best he could. Past bedrooms, a guest bathroom, and to a padlocked door at the end of the hallway. Emma fumbled with a set of keys, explaining,

“I think Killian is heading for wherever the monster controls the security cameras from. He’s going to enact the plan today.”

She opened the padlock and yanked the door open. Inside was a table laden with multiple laptops and two desktop computers, all of which seemed to be connected together via masses of coiled cables. As Emma frenzied among the mess, Jones asked,

“What’s all this?”

“Borrowed some equipment. From friends… and possibly from Evidence at the station.” She seemed relieved when Jones didn't comment. “I hacked into all the security cameras around town, or those connected to the internet, at least. I figured that’s what the Master does, and it would probably be more effective to change the feed than to, like, hold a screen in front of the camera or something.”

“Hold… a screen…?” The detective’s confusion was clear, but Emma was too focused to explain. Deciding to trust in her expertise, gained most likely online during one of her many sleepless night recently, Jones watched for a moment as she continued booting up each computer. Then, impressed and a tiny bit disbelieving, he asked,

“What can I do to help?”

*****

_**3 weeks, 4 days ago…** _

His third day a slave, Killian thought he was getting off easy. That is, as far as ‘no additional injuries on top of those earned during his first 48 hours’ easy. Maybe the two beatings the day before--one for neglecting to attach the provided chain to his collar overnight and the second as part of a ‘Session’ with the Master--had bought him a day’s respite. It was nearing evening, and no one had appeared in the stall entrance to disturb his attempts at rest. A blessing, to be sure; every single inch of him hurt in some way or another, and Killian was not certain he would survive further violence.

As soon as that grim thought crossed his mind, a slave escort appeared. The withered man had no buckets in hand, which could only mean one thing. Killian stifled anxious qualms and began his mantra. _Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead. That_ Killian was desperate. _That_ Killian could obey the summons, could face more torture for the sake of a chance at gleaning any information on his little girl.

_That_ Killian struggled to his feet, joints creaking audibly, dozens of knotted threads pulling tight within his flesh. The slave was impassive as he unlocked Killian’s chain and then exited the stall, obviously expecting the pirate to follow. Killian pictured Hope’s blood as he forced aching limbs into a mechanical, unsteady gait. Each step awakened a new anguish, in a different place each time. Despite his best efforts, dread soon had his pulse racing beneath swollen, bruised, and torn skin, doubling the throb, intensifying the quaking. What would it be this time? How long before he would scream?

He somehow made it to the church. And there the reluctance became almost a physical barrier blocking his entrance, and he only overcame it with sheer courage, virtually throwing himself inside.

Killian had not anticipated seeing Z standing within, beside the Master, near the altar. His foreboding quadrupled, and it was almost enough to send him lurching back the way he’d come in search of two more minutes of safety. Her presence could in no way signify anything good.

The charade. Cling to the charade.

“Master, please…” He cleared his throat, staggered closer, swimming through pools of red-shifted stained glass patterns on the floor. “My daughter… we had a deal.”

Wearing an indulgent smile, the Master curled a tentacle, waving Killian onward. “Good evening, Tripod.” 

COME TO YOUR MASTER.

Killian stumbled on an uneven paving stone. “At least tell me if she’s okay.”

“Let’s see how well you please me tonight.”

Killian stopped at the foot of the stairs, out of the Master’s reach. He cast a glance at Z, who was standing still, eyes fixed on the tilted surface of the broken altar. Killian caught a glimpse of metal, a flash of candlelight off of something sharp. He shuddered in apprehension.

“H… how can I be of service, Master?”

“Come join us.” The Master indicated a spot on the floor at the altar’s edge, between itself and the taciturn Z. Killian drew a calming, painful breath and then hauled himself up, one step at a time, wincing as the exertion aggravated barely contained injuries. He couldn’t help cringing away from the Master’s welcoming tentacle, which found him anyway, wrapping itself around his left forearm. The creature’s clawed hand patted Killian’s shoulder.

“I feel your fear, Tripod, and savor it. I will be honest with you: it is justified. I anticipate an unprecedented opportunity for you to serve me tonight.”

Jaw tense, Killian avoided looking at Z’s collection of implements on the altar. The Master noticed, and it chuckled. 

“I have invited Z to dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Whatever pleases my Master,” Killian managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The Master ruffled its claws through his hair.

“Good little Tripod.”

Tenderly, it guided him closer to the altar, until he stood leaning against it. The slanted surface came up to his breastbone, radiating cold from metallic decorations. The top was polished wood, and he could make out the dents and dings of age, as well as crusted dribbles of candle wax. His thighs pressed against a protruding design of intricate copper, sending a shiver up his spine. The restraining tentacle lifted his arm; he tried not to resist despite the sudden stab of panic.

“Yes,” hissed the Master in his ear. “That’s it.”

It stretched Killian’s arm forward and then allowed it to rest on the tabletop, making a slight adjustment to the angle so that, if Killian had still possessed a hand, his pinkie would have been contacting the surface, with the thumb above. He felt the crab-like pincer take position behind his elbow, adding to the restraint already provided by the tentacle. The Master clattered forward and pressed its thorax against his back. Its wrinkle-free waistcoat itched as it pinned him in place.

Killian could not even make a fist in reaction to his tension; the fresh brand still boiled with any movement of his thumb. His fingers twitched anyway as the Master’s second tentacle snaked around that arm as well.

“Z and I have devised a gift for you,” purred the Master. “To accommodate your deformity. It will require some precision, though… so do try and hold still, for your own good.”

Wheezing rapid breaths, feeling the heat of adrenaline in his limbs, Killian could only watch as Z shuffled closer and balanced her tools within reach. She stood off to his right, at the narrow end of the altar.

“Z, let him see the device.”

The silent woman held up a metal shape, something like a half-circle made of slender rods about the thickness of a ballpoint pen, maybe slightly more. There were, in fact, two separate pieces: a straight one, which tapered down to a wicked point, and then a long curve, of which one end was joined to the thicker end of the straight piece. The attachment point was two interlocking rings, so that the curve could twist and rotate all the way around the central line. The other, tapered end had a small hole drilled through it, and Killian surmised that there was some way to attach the currently free-floating curve’s edge as well to make a continuous frame of metal. What he could not--or, perhaps, _dared_ not--fathom was its purpose.

No spray bottle of disinfectant here. This time, it was straight iodine, poured from a beaker directly onto his outstretched wrist. The brown liquid streamed down the tilted tabletop like bloodstains, hearkening back to the altar’s original purpose. Z drenched a cloth in the iodine and began to scrub roughly at the apex of Killian’s captive wrist, then its base. And some instinctive part of him grasped the intent, even if his reasoning was slow to catch on. He lurched backward into the solid presence behind, an incomprehensible, pleading whine sounding from his throat. The Master tightened its grip, though it was in no danger of losing it.

Z continued her abrasive disinfection even as Killian struggled. Both sides of his scarred wrist now sported a bright and ominous yellow.

“Relax now, Tripod. You’re being given a tremendous opportunity to serve me with your screams. You should not fight it.”

He couldn’t do this. Whatever had possessed him to think this scheme was in any way achievable? He took it all back. He had to escape, to save his own skin like the cowardly pirate he’d always been… He… he had to…

“Please… no…”

It was already too late. There was no escape. He was trapped in place, his Master’s bulk crushing him against the table, both arms in a vise grip while tears of dread stained his face. The best he could hope for now was a quick death, because he certainly would not survive further mutilation of his… oh, gods, was that a hammer?

Another terrible thought struck as Z lay his arm back into position. Something that had inexplicably escaped his awareness during these past two days of torture: Emma was listening. She would hear the whole thing.

“I’m sorry… Swan…” The last word was cut off by an involuntary sob. The spike’s tip pressed against his flesh, sharp and cold. Killian could only breathe in short, frantic little gasps, still thrashing in his Master’s grip, but tiring rapidly. The hammer hovered, went through the motions without actually touching its target. A practice swing. Killian was trembling so badly that the precariously balanced set of tools rattled on the altar’s surface.

Then it crashed down for real. Driving metal through skin and muscle into bone. Killian’s first startled yelp was more of shock than true pain, as it took a second for his brain to catch up. Into the erupting fireball, the hammer fell again.

It was the Dark One, taking his hand with his own blade.

It was the clumsy efforts of Smee and the crew, trying to stop the bleeding and save his wretched life.

It was the dying stump, ballooned and pulsing with infection.

It was the first time he’d donned the hook over the raw flesh, the first time he’d bumped it against some obstruction, the first time he’d fallen on it.

The first time he’d killed with it.

Already, he had screamed himself hoarse, the Master moaning in ecstasy behind him, but the blows continued like lightning bolts, illuminating phantoms so bright that surely he must have a hand there after all.

Off target, the hammer slipped and smashed into blueberry flesh, and the stake jolted sideways with a crunch, and Killian felt himself falling until he was caught by the collar and splashed with water while the hammer lay dormant, and he couldn’t even make sense of words he knew he should recognize because his only focus could be the searing cold metal driven halfway through his wrist.

The hammer resumed its grisly task while Killian’s cries grew feebler. He drifted in a haze of anguish, half-fainting, shocks of pain sizzling up his arm. His dead weight sagged against the exultant Master behind him as the whole church seemed to spin on an axis.

Killian didn’t feel a difference when the spike broke through the skin on the pinkie side of his wrist. The only clue was a minor change in sound: the metal had entered the wood of the altar. One more blow, one more wooden thunk, and Z lay the hammer aside.

And then she yanked upward on his tormented arm, and Killian gave voice to one more noiseless cry as the impaling device shifted inside him before squeaking free of the altar.

His eyes were closed and nothing could make him open them to see the ghastly damage. Even when Z began manipulating the attached ring, pulling brutally and drawing more tears of pain, he kept them squeezed shut. His hand, too, remained balled into an unyielding fist despite negligible protests from his branded palm.

This was it. This was his life now. He would never again feel happiness. Contentment. A moment free of pain. Forevermore, his existence would consist of blazing agony.

There was an audible snap as the free corner of the ring found its bloodstained attachment point. The straight post shifted again, Killian whimpered once and dove headfirst into black oblivion.

This time, the Master let him fall.


	30. Chapter 30

_**Present (Friday, continued)...** _

Something tugged gently on a loose thread protruding from the hem of Killian’s sackcloth tunic. Too disoriented to react, he lay still, docile and apathetic. The tugging grew more insistent, accompanied by a scrabbling flutter that showered debris against the back of his thigh. Killian snarled and shifted his bottom leg, which he immediately regretted as a million sore places awoke into blistering screams. His eyes watered as he dragged them open. 

The first thing he saw was the iron fence surrounding Torture Cathedral. He was on his side, lying not three steps from the front gate, the ornate building behind him but much too close for comfort. And he could not move his head for some reason. What time was it? What day, even? What was he doing collapsed on the pathway, alone?

Alone except for the blasted tugging, which resumed after pain had thwarted his attempts to move.

It couldn’t be his Master, despite the prickle of horror that raced up his spine when an eddying breeze tickled his upper legs. That creature was much too big to be hidden from view, even with the current limitations to his visual field. 

Wasn’t it?

An instant of panic gave Killian enough adrenaline to roll onto his back, and he searched wildly for any sign of armored claw or slimy, suckered tentacle. Instead, a terrified pigeon launched itself into the air, leaving several feathers behind in its haste to escape.

Killian winced as he tried to catch his breath. Bolts of stabbing fire skewered his neck, drowning out all other complaints for an untraceable amount of time. That was definitely new, but he was hesitant to reach up and explore its source for fear of worsening the pain. Instead, he tried to focus elsewhere, to distract himself from one area of agony by rediscovering others. Not an ideal solution, by any means.

Half of his body now lay on loose, jagged gravel, including his practically severed foot, and it provided a less-than-comfortable surface for a rest. Dirt and rock particles ground against haphazardly tended wounds, further soiling the bandages and likely disturbing the fragile clots that had formed overnight. Still, were it not for the danger of being discovered and set upon by a nearby Vocivore at any moment, Killian probably would have borne the discomfort and allowed himself to remain on top of the rocks until he felt strong enough to move again.

But his Master would not remain satiated for long. Reluctantly, Killian braced for more anguish before heaving himself up, forced to put weight on both arms in spite of the customary, excruciating zing from the stake through his wrist. The simple act of holding his head upright brought tears to his eyes as scalding hot lances seemed to burrow deeper into throbbing neck muscles with every beat of his heart. He breathed through his teeth. In. Out. In. Out. In… Killian dared not reach up. Even the lone wisp of air stirring the sweat-drenched clumps of hair on his forehead was too much pressure against the collar of affliction.

His damaged neck. A new soreness in his jaw. Raw, stinging cracks in the corners of his mouth. Woven together, these individual elements painted a hazy picture of his previous Session with his Master. There had been a recording device, and more tortures, and the Vocivore had been too excited and preoccupied to even undress him like it normally did, and Killian had nearly lost himself forever…

He must have passed out on the path. He’d resolved not to; he had important things to do and very little time to get them accomplished. Less, now that some undetermined number of minutes or even hours had passed while he swooned the day away. Bloody hell. 

His pain didn’t matter. Weakness didn’t matter. He had to go.

The climb to an upright position was like a week-long expedition up a mountain peak and took just as much of his strength. Killian surprised himself by managing to suppress most noises loud enough to attract his Master’s attention, though by the time he swayed on unsteady feet, hunched over and clutching at the nearest fence post, tears were running freely down his cheeks and his chest was tight with imprisoned sobs. 

Very slowly, Killian straightened, screwed his eyes shut for a brief moment more, and pulled a controlled, rallying breath. He took one step forward, refusing to acknowledge the splitting hurt from his impaired ankle, and skirted the rusted gate that guarded the limits of the church property.

He could follow the fence for a fair distance, using it as support and guide while he prayed for enough strength to reach his ultimate destination. He limped the first three steps. No sound or movement came from the direction of the church; Killian decided to take that as an encouraging sign. As long as his Master was busy with its project, he would have time.

Swan would need time, too. A warning. 

He lifted his bandaged arm, quietly groaning as he brought the hated wrist ring up toward his face. Though no living soul was in plain sight, there was always the possibility of someone monitoring him through the collar camera, so he had to keep the message brief and cryptic, meaningful only to the one person guaranteed to be listening.

“Weigh anchor.”

*****

Killian’s first stop: the armory.

He’d been there once before, in preparation for his mission to Storybrooke just days earlier. The blessedly short distance between the church and the shop-turned-weapons-storage-facility was still a struggle in his weakened state and on an ankle that would only barely take his weight. He was puffing and dizzy by the time he reached the doorway.

One guard huddled on the stoop, resting against the wall, apparently asleep. With the total obedience of each of the Master’s minions, the position was mostly formality and likely did not see much action. The man hardly stirred at Killian’s approach, and he lapsed into soundless unconsciousness at the first blow. Killian took a moment to recover his balance, focusing on the pain and nothing else. If his Master sensed relief, triumph, or excitement, it may send others to investigate. And Killian had to get to the video room first.

A spear would be ideal. No need to get within range of the monster’s tentacles. But it would be too cumbersome to carry with him and more likely to attract attention. So Killian selected a fairly well-maintained sword and two daggers. The latter he tucked into a bandage around his thigh; the sword he secured against his body, holding it carefully under his left arm. Then he hobbled back out to the street, heading for the church’s side entrance.

*****

“Okay,” said Emma at last. “Be ready to hit play on all those videos. Just not yet. We don’t want to give the game away before Killian is in position. And… it’s probably best to do it as simultaneously as possible.”

Jones nodded, still unclear on the actual plan, but he stayed quiet and checked again that the cursor on each computer hovered over the play button. Emma had assigned him four screens; she would cover the other five. After some hesitation, Emma removed her hidden earpiece, laying that and her phone on the desk between two laptops. She fiddled with some settings on the phone, raised the volume to maximum, and over the faint rustling sounds now emanating from its speaker, she said,

“The transmitter is actually picked up by my phone. We had the feed routed to the earpiece to keep it secret and more convenient for me.” She paused, listening, and Jones could discern quiet, ragged breaths and the rhythmic thud of footsteps. “Now you can hear what’s going on, and when he gives the signal.”

Signal for what?

“And… it was Rumplestiltskin who helped set up the transmitter? The same one who saved my life, but earlier in his timeline?”

“Uh huh.” She displayed a brief flash of resentment. “He still has a ways to go before he gets to where he eventually ends up.”

Jones knew she was referring to the gleeful and excessive stabbing of her husband for the staged abduction. “As long as he still gets there, I think I can forgive a few missteps along the way.”

Emma rolled her eyes but agreed. “He must. Otherwise, how are you still here?”

The rustling noises emanating from her phone increased in intensity, and her eyes dropped automatically to the device, as if it would provide interpretation of the sounds on its dark, impassive screen. Jones could not imagine the stress of the past month, hearing such awful things with only her imagination to fill in the grisly details.

“It sounds different,” she murmured.

“How so?”

“Before, things were kind of muted, and I could hear his heartbeat. Now, sounds are sharper, and that rustling is new… I think he must have dug it out of his shoulder.”

Jones watched her face, deep in contemplation. “And that’s why you think he may not be planning on getting out?”

She swallowed hard. “If he… thinks he’s not gonna survive this… he would want us to still have whatever advantage we could get. He probably plans to leave the transmitter in the... the torture chamber.”

“Where the Master spends most of its time,” Jones concluded. He could follow the thought process, and it made sense. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s given up, just that he wants to be prepared for all eventualities.”

Any reply she may have had was cut off by action from the transmitter: the creak of a door, a startled exclamation, and definite sounds of a struggle.

And it was impossible to tell who was winning.


	31. Chapter 31

**_Two days ago..._ **

The barn fire was getting too big too quickly. While it was true that the Master’s orders called for total destruction, there were multiple other buildings on the list, and this would alert the authorities far too soon.

Sure enough, before the slaves had a chance to regroup, a siren sounded in the distance, growing closer at an alarming speed. Killian ducked around the corner of the building farthest from the road while he considered his options.

Above all, Killian desperately wished he could allow himself to be captured, to give himself up to be tended with proper medical care and painkillers and a soft bed. He wanted more than anything for this nightmare to be over, to simply collapse in the arms of his beloved and admit defeat. But then they would not have one iota of gain to show for all of the suffering. They would lose their advantage and would have to come up with another way to defeat the monster, a possibility that seemed more hopeless with each passing day.  
  
As it was, Killian did have the inklings of an idea buried deep, meticulously guarded from the Master’s probing thoughts. If he could somehow communicate the particulars to his Swan without the collar camera overhearing... But it all depended upon his Master not seeing him as a threat. Which meant continuing on with the charade and the misery.

It was the Chevelle: Detective Jones and his new partner, David. What Killian had been expecting and dreading at the same time. He would not be permitted to stand idly by while his fellow slaves were rounded up by his friends. He had a sword; his Master would oblige him to use it. And both of them were formidable opponents, especially in his weakened state.

ELIMINATE THEIR ESCAPE ROUTE, growled the Master's voice in his head, slightly quieter than normal but not by much. From the shaky, unreliable views at throat level, it would not be able to discern details yet, only that the new arrivals represented both a threat to its current slaves as well as potential victims to add to its horde. 

While the two officers climbed out of the vehicle and raced to investigate the blazing barn, Killian staggered around the opposite corner, behind their backs and to the concealed side of the car. He could hear definite sounds of battle: stun guns and then pistol shots as his friends struggled against far too many opponents. With a grunt of exertion, Killian drove the point of his blade into the front left tire.

Before long, Jones and David decided to retreat. They were approaching the car. Killian made his way to the back left wheel well, grimacing. The confrontation was inevitable now.  
  
Tasked with clearing their escape route, David was the first to spot him.

“Killian?”

He did not fire his gun, which Killian confirmed was his regular pistol and not the stun weapon. Damn it, there would be no easy way out of this one. Killian had no difficulty summoning his bleakest expression. Never mind seeing his friend for the first time in weeks; that friend would likely never trust him again. He would have to make a very realistic attempt to bring David down, possibly hurting him in the process. Was it any wonder, then, that he felt no joy at the reunion? 

THAT ONE APPEARS TO HAVE A NOURISHING VOICE. CAPTURE HIM IF YOU CAN, TRIPOD, BUT DO NOT ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE TAKEN.

David was trying to talk him down, stepping carefully forward with his hands raised, his pistol loose in his grip and pointing toward the sky. As one in a trance, Killian stumbled his way to the third tire, speared it with his weapon, then paused to catch his breath. He could see the prince slowly reaching for the handcuffs at his belt. In the background, Jones was engaged in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle; like it or not, Killian's fellow slaves may take care of him on their own.

Killian allowed the point of his sword to rest on the ground, leaning back against the car in only slightly exaggerated exhaustion. He would not go to David; he needed David to bring the fight to him. It was all he had the energy for. Breathing heavily, Killian tried to block out his father-in-law's continued pleas, his reminders who waited for him at home, who was worried about him. None of it mattered if he was not successful in his quest.

Mere steps away, David had holstered his pistol and was reaching, almost too slowly to see, toward Killian's wrist.

“Come on, buddy. Let's get you taken care of, huh?”

Killian measured distances out of the corner of his eye. Waiting until the last possible second. Counting on the possibility that David would hold back and expect Killian to do the same. That Killian's true nature would result in the same feelings of restraint which guided David's actions.

With only centimeters to spare, Killian lashed out with the butt of his sword, driving it into David's solar plexus. The prince doubled over, winded, and Killian did not allow him time to recover. He followed the blow with a strike to the temple. Already twisted slightly as he fumbled for his pistol, David went limp and fell heavily to the ground, landing on his side. The thump of his body meeting dirt seemed to vibrate all the way up to the pit of Killian’s stomach where guilt normally lived.

KILL THIS ONE. BRING THE OTHER.

David seemed to be unconscious. He could not resist. Killian had run out of excuses. His Master was watching, and the nearest approaching siren was still much too far. Feigning breathlessness, Killian lurched the two steps that separated him from the helpless form of his father-in-law. Struggling to maintain his balance, he stepped over the obstacle, positioned himself behind David, and used a vicious kick to turn him onto his stomach. Then, as he straddled the body for maximum control, he allowed himself one quick glance in Jones' direction: now armed with a sword himself, the detective was finishing off his final opponent. If he could time this just right…

Killian magnified his tremors for the Master’s benefit as he held his blade poised above his target. Just as important as timing was the selection of a landing site. But he had to make it look as if his physical condition caused him to miss a fatal blow. 

One good thing about David being unconscious: Killian didn't have to suppress the additional remorse that would have surely resulted from the pained reaction to his sword clattering off of David's shoulder blade. 

Killian staggered as if surprised by the obstruction, and as he did so, he noticed that Jones had dropped his final attacker. With a dispassion born of his now-familiar mantra, Killian readied his weapon for a second strike.

Jones arrived just in time. _Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead._

BRING THIS ONE TO ME!

The mental command had a noticeably greater insistence than usual, bordering on frantic hunger. It was the closest it had ever come to instilling the mindless compulsion that drove all other slaves.

Killian knew why his Master was so adamant. And could not allow it.

Jones engaged in their shared tactic of posturing, and even if he weren't playing the part of a broken-down, hopeless slave, Killian was too weary to answer back.  
  
The pair had sparred before, a friendly contest here and there, a way to keep up their skills in a more peaceful world than the one in which they’d spent most of their lives. And Killian could tell right away that, just as he did during those contests of no import, Jones was playing it safe, holding back to prevent injury, and that was the last thing Killian wanted him to do. His Master would notice if the fight were not authentic, and if they both curbed their strikes, it would be revealed as a farce.

The slash to his sword arm was entirely accidental; Killian knew by the look on Jones’ face. But the burning wound was somehow enough to spur the fight into high gear, with resulting bloodshed on both sides. They traded blows. Killian could feel half-healed wounds beginning to open with the exertion. Jones, too, bled from more than one gash but seemed not to notice.

Killian could not catch his breath. The scene begin to take on a shadowy, murky quality and he moved solely by instinct. Tenuous footing caused a very real stumble, quick reflexes allowed Jones to catch his sword arm, and Killian should have allowed it to end then. But his left arm was free, and he moved without thinking, or perhaps his Master’s hunger for a twin Tripod overcame his usual immunity to its edicts. He swung his stump with all the strength he could muster, driving the wrist ring straight into the detective’s face.  
  
Crystalline flames consumed Killian's wrist. Jagged tendrils climbed his forearm like steadily growing cracks in a pane of glass. He could do nothing but cradle the arm in breathless anguish as he waited for the defeating blow.

TAKE HIM, TRIPOD. TAKE HIM NOW!

His Master's command screamed through his mind and was just enough to mask his terrible pain. The nearing sirens would explain the urgency: not much longer before the opportunity was lost. Clutching the throbbing limb to his side, Killian responded to the order and struck out blindly with his blade.

The shock wave of steel against steel raced up his arm, jolting even the fiercely complaining wrist on the opposite side. Somehow taken by surprise, Jones lost his sword and stumbled back into the outstretched arm of a downed slave.

The Master's exultation as the detective hit the ground was short-lived. The crunch of gravel announced the arrival of backup, and though Jones was unarmed and struggling against the grip on his ankle, Killian would not have enough time to secure him and drag him away. The Master knew it too.

TOO LATE, it growled. DISPOSE OF HIM QUICKLY AND RETREAT.

Killian could not bring himself to look at the resignation on his friend's face as he readied his blade. In fact, the only reason he managed to watch at all was because he might miss and cause serious harm otherwise.

A car door slammed. His sword stabbed down into flesh. 

GO, howled the Master.

"Killian!" came the frantic cry from behind.

It was her-- _Hope kidnapped_ \--it was-- _Hope tortured_ \--oh gods-- _Hope dead--Hope DEAD_ \--Swan. His Swan. He only had to turn and she would be there. Right before him, in the flesh, not a bittersweet memory seen through a haze of pain-- _HOPE DEAD!!!_

Killian was staggering away before he was even aware of it, desperate to preserve the illusion, to keep his resolve from crashing to the ground like all of his groaning comrades around him. If he saw her... if he met her eyes…

She was calling him, begging him to stop, and just hearing her voice again was enough to bring him to tears. He missed her so much; their separation rivaled the worst of the tortures, and maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he abandoned their plot-- _HopeDeadHopeDeadHopeDead--_

He heard the pistol discharging at the same instant as a crippling pain burrowed its way into his back, knocking him forward, flat on his face in the grass. But dazzling lights exploded in his brain and zapped in scalding waves along every single nerve path in his body, and he did not even feel the jarring landing.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: 

**_Present (Friday, continued)…_ **

The guards in the surveillance room were considerably more alert than the one at the armory. Perhaps due to their proximity to their Master--they were, after all, in the same building--or the fact that it had reason to visit more frequently. Whatever the explanation, they’d leapt to their feet the instant Killian had pushed the door open.

They weren’t armed and probably could not fathom ill-intent from a fellow slave. Still, the moment they saw his sword, they must have known he was up to no good. Two charged him recklessly, no thought for their own safety, while the third managed to lift her wooden chair to use as a shield-slash-weapon.

With the sword hilt, Killian quickly felled the first two assailants, every single movement tearing at the screws in his neck. He growled and stumbled over their unconscious forms just as a set of chair legs swiped at his midsection. A fragmented pair of wooden rods clattered to the floor as Killian brought his blade down hard. The remaining slave staggered and snarled, but she did not back off. Lurching forward, she swiped the still-vibrating chair in the other direction, forcing Killian to dodge the splintered edges coming for his face. One of the intact legs caught him in the abdomen, driving the breath from his lungs and doubling him over.

Blindly, through darkening vision, mind-numbing pain, and the desperate panic of not being able to breathe, Killian lashed out with his sword. There was a thunk as the blade contacted wood, and he only barely managed to hold on through the shock wave. The chair flew upward, the seat back slammed into the woman’s forehead, and she crumpled backwards in a heap, the damaged chair on top.

Killian clutched at his belly and finally managed a small breath. Eyes watering, heart racing, he limped to the row of monitors even as stars twinkled in his peripheral vision. He had no time for recovery, no time to secure the temporarily stunned guards. His Master would have sensed the threat. It could be here at any time. And there was no clinging to the charade of obedience anymore.

“Swan,” he wheezed, praying she’d had enough time for preparation. He squinted at the first screen. “Entrance to the hospital Emergency Department.” He sucked a deeper breath, held it, grimacing. Screen two. “Holding cells in the sheriff station…. City Hall auditorium…” The fourth and fifth cameras were in locations he could not identify, possibly outside of Storybrooke. Gritting his teeth, Killian hobbled to that side of the desk, noting that the first two feeds had already been replaced by other images. Emma was ready! They may have a chance after all.

Killian had little clue how to switch the feeds of the last two cameras, but he began clicking randomly in the program regardless. He had to find one which Emma could control. The image changed. A slave collar, overseeing the destruction of property. Then someone’s bedroom from their webcam. A random front porch. Killian battled rising urgency. There was no time. There had to be… there!

“The cemetery,” he barked, already moving to the final screen. “Turn them on, love! My Master could be--”

The inside door swung open with a crash. And into the room, wearing an expression of pure malice, scuttled the imposing shape of the scream-eating monster.  
  
His Master. They were too late.


	32. Chapter 32

**_Two days ago (continued)…_ **

David. Detective Jones.

"Killian?"

His... _the_ Master, watching, listening.

“Killian, it’s me. I’m here.”

His own blade flashing down, plunging into the prince's back, striking off the detective's chest. Smoke and flame, sparks of blue lightning, orders to kill growing stronger, overcoming his battered reason. That was then. Now…

“Can you hear us, Hook?”

Pain, that familiar companion, muted and fuzzy. And words half-remembered, half-commanded. The last thing he wanted to say, obliged.

"I must return."

The grating growl sounded almost as bad as he felt. 

"I must return to my Master."

Did the ragged quality of his voice do enough to disguise his utter terror at the very thought? Or did his audience hear lack of conviction? How he would rather perish in that hospital bed than spend one single second more in the Master's presence?

Somehow, Emma managed to keep up a false front, even though she was undoubtedly just as tempted as he was to fling herself at him and express her love after such a long and difficult separation. The story demanded that she turn her questioning to the subject of their supposedly missing daughter. Killian displayed exhaustion and confusion: not much of a stretch, although the drugged haze did not let him forget the fact that they may be under observation. But when Killian reached up toward his throat, he was pleasantly surprised to find the dreadful collar gone. He and Emma could talk freely… if it weren’t for the crowd of onlookers surrounding his bed.

Emma must have shared his urgency to have a real conversation, for she immediately got to work bargaining for time alone with him. Fighting the persistent pull of narcotic slumber, Killian gladly allowed her to handle the details. Bloody hell, the pressure between his ears was intensifying, voices in the room sounding like they were being filtered through stacks of wool. His damaged stump pulsed with pain despite the drugs pumping into him; he vaguely remembered using it in battle and must have reinjured partially healed flesh inside. But the measured tone of Jones' voice alleviated a small amount of guilt: he would be in a hell of a lot of pain for awhile but would evidently make a full recovery.

Killian listened dully to the negotiations taking place. 15 minutes would be pushing things; 10 was _nothing._ But it might be his only chance, if bloody Whale insisted on more sedation afterward. Gods, that sounded like nirvana. The drugs would hardly even be necessary; Killian felt as if he could sleep for a month, and dammit, he did not have that kind of luxury.

“...Mr. Zombie Universe…”

That about summed it up. No matter that he looked the part; he felt even worse. While he was on some kind of opioid--he knew that for a fact--the simple act of breathing made some hurt or other fire up in a never-ending carousel of complaint. His arms were doing their blasted skittering again, and choking fog kept swirling behind his eyes. Getting up, he could maybe handle. Escape without alarm, doubtful. As for a long trek… back _there…_

Killian didn’t realize he was panting, tense and desperate, until Emma leaned over and began caressing his face. She placed a light kiss on the tip of his nose, whispering,

“It’s okay; they’re gone… Killian?”

Through the vise constricting inexorably tighter within his throat, Killian whined,

“I have to go back.”

He couldn’t open his eyes. He would see his wife there, fraught with worry and determined to detain him. Not understanding. And he would relent, and they would lose their only advantage, and all would suffer and die and it would be his fault for being a cowardly weakling--

“Killian, no.”

Choking back a sob, he struggled to detach himself from the fear. “My Mas… the… the monster, it… it’s starting to trust me, that’s why it sent me here, as a test, but it… it _knows_ things, Emma, it can _sense_ things and if I don’t return we’ll _never_ have this opportunity again--”

“Rumplestiltskin lied to us.”

Emma’s quiet statement brought him up short, and he could not help opening his eyes then. An icy shiver of dread shot down his spine.

“Hope? Is she...?”

“No, she’s okay.”

He couldn’t even allow the automatic wave of relief, or his Master would feel it. Killian deliberately swung his bandaged stump against the bedrail, cringing as the spike vibrated within his flesh and ground glass pressed against raw nerves. 

“Then what?” he growled. Emma blinked, started to reach for the injury, but grabbed his fisted hand instead.

“Your immunity. You were asleep, but they did an MRI, and Whale confirmed: you’re starting to show the same symptoms as all the others, the ones who…”

Who had died. All of them; they’d all died.

But it didn’t matter. If he failed his mission, the whole United Realms--hell, the whole _world_ \--would face that same fate.

“Bollocks. Whale is a damn fool; I’m completely fine.”

“I can hear you.”

He stared at her blankly, and she touched his shoulder.

“Did you forget? I’ve been listening.”

Killian swallowed, sickened by the reminder. The last thing he wanted to think about was subjecting his beloved to his torment. “Aye? What of it?”

Her lips tightened, revealing the struggle to contain her emotions. _It’s so hard,_ she seemed to say. _I can’t keep listening to you fall. Bleed. Scream. Suffer._ “So you win his trust. Then what? You need to tell me that you have a plan. ‘Cuz I’ve gleaned exactly zero from this guy. And it _has_ to be worth it.”

Killian drew as deep a breath as he could muster. He had to make this convincing.

“I do have a plan, Swan. And I’ll need your assistance to pull it off.”

“I’m listening…”

He thought for a moment, willing his sluggish brain to gather all of the pieces into a coherent thought.

“You… may have gathered that the Master feeds off of negative emotions in addition to the… the screams?”

Emma’s response was drowned out by echoing memories of his own cries of agony, trumpeting loudly in his skull. He hissed and pressed his fingers into his eye sockets, begging the noise to stop.

“You okay?” asked Emma quietly, full of concern. With a final shudder, Killian nodded. “I hate to rush this, but we’re running out of time.”

Mumbling as he massaged his forehead, Killian continued. “Well, it’s weakened by positive emotion--that’s why it sends its slave army to wreak random havoc. The worse the morale around its hideout, the stronger it gets.”

“Kinda got that already, when the bastard was sending you out on your mission.”

“Aye, well, suppose we could turn that to our advantage?” He lay his hand at his side once again, tremors causing his fingers to twitch uncontrollably.

“How? Even if we sent the most annoyingly cheerful and optimistic beings in the Realms, the guard slaves would kill them all before they ever got close.”

“Its camera network,” slurred Killian. An inexorable weight pressed down, the feeling of disconnectedness, of floating through half-reality with nothing to grip. His heavy eyelids at half mast, he struggled out, “Turn all camera feeds into positivity channels--uplifting music, comedies, silly cartoons and the like--at the right time…”

Emma managed to look simultaneously thoughtful and skeptical. “Defeat the scream-eater with laughter? Pretty sure I've seen that one.”

Killian shuddered. “How Pixar managed to come so close with that Waternoose fellow, I’ll never know.”

“Another one to permanently take off the Netflix queue?”

Killian restrained himself from reaching for her hand. He couldn’t allow the comfort, not now. His Master would sense it. “So? Can I count on you to arrange the details?”

“Tell people to add a laugh track to their home security systems… but without letting the cameras see.”

“Precisely.”

She blew out a breath. “Not difficult at all.”

“Remember, you’ll have the advantage of knowing when the creature is… occupied…” He smiled bravely, and perhaps the early stages of neurological degeneration could explain the quaver in his voice and the flicker of reluctance on his face.

“But, hold on, in the movie, didn’t the laughter produce _more_ energy? For the… monster city or whatever?”

Shifting off of an intensifying throb in one hip, Killian squeezed his eyes shut in brief concession to the pain. “You, of all people, should know not to put too much stock in those things.” He worked to settle, to absorb as much rest as he could before it became impossible once again. “I’m certain it doesn’t work that way in this case. The Master has every reason to be forthright with its slaves. And it has been very clear about its need for negativity.”

“Okay, but… hell, why do you even have to go back? The camera stuff can easily be managed without you in the mix.”

He shook his head once. “It will have to be an exceedingly powerful dose to get past all of the despair the Master has cultivated in its slaves. Someone will need to tune each of the monitors to a positive channel, all at the same time. I managed to do some scouting last night; I think I know where its surveillance equipment is kept. And then, if the positivity isn’t enough... I’ll be there to finish the monster off.”

There was a beat, punctuated only by quiet beeps and the whir of the IV pump at his bedside. Then Emma grimaced.

“It’s a terrible plan. I hate it.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “I concur. But it’s all we have.”

He could tell she was thinking furiously, searching for alternatives, brain turning things over and over so fast it hurt. Her pained scowl could attest to that. He also knew the moment she gave in: her spine sagged in brief defeat before straightening along with a deep breath. Brave determination.

“It’ll work. It _will._ And then you’ll come back, and magic will come back, and I’ll be able to heal you.” She settled her hand along his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek. “Promise me you believe that?”

“I…” He averted his eyes, unable to watch her face. “I dare not. Optimism is a dangerous thing to bring into the Master’s presence. I’m sorry, love. You’ll have to carry enough for the both of us.”

She did not speak for the longest time. But then she wrapped his hand in hers and gave it a tight squeeze. “Okay, Killian. Consider it done.”

He looked back at her, and saw that her eyes glistened just as much as his. Desperately, she lunged forward and possessed him with her kiss. And this one, he was allowed to feel. Because this was goodbye, and goodbye could mean forever, and that hurt so much worse than any stab of a knife or pinch of a claw ever could.

Emma was the first to break away. She startled back so fast that Killian sucked too deep a breath and found himself clutching sore ribs. Then he heard the faint buzz of her phone. She pulled it out of her pocket and read the screen with dismay.

“Crap, we only have like thirty seconds until the ten minutes are up. How are we getting you out of here?”

Killian’s sense of time was undeniably muzzy due to the drugs in his system; he would have sworn that no more than three or four minutes had elapsed. “You’ll have to stall them, Swan, unless you care to carry my unconscious self to the forest’s edge.”

Emma cursed again. “Pretend to be asleep.”

Well, _that_ wouldn’t be too hard; the challenge would be remaining alert enough to pay attention to whatever she devised as cover. Closing his eyes, he settled back and worked to slow his heart.

He heard footsteps and then a quiet,

“How’s it going in here?”

Detective Jones. Emma sighed.

“Seemed like we were starting to get somewhere, but he was just so tired. I told him he could rest for a little while and try again later.”

One set of footsteps drew closer, and then the IV tubing lying across his arm was jiggling slightly.

“What’s that?” Emma asked casually, but Killian could detect a note of alarm.

“Dr. Whale prescribed a sedative,” explained the nurse, and Killian cursed inwardly. Maybe it really _would_ come down to Emma having to carry him out.

“Hold on a sec. Please? Could you come back in, say, an hour? He’s sleeping without it right now, and I need to be able to wake him up in a bit to finish his questioning.”

“This isn’t like anesthesia,” soothed the nurse. “He’ll have periods of wakefulness still; it just helps him to sleep more soundly.”

“Yeah, but… he’ll be… super drowsy when he is awake, right? Couldn’t that make it harder to think clearly?”

The nurse paused. “I’m sorry, but it’s doctor’s orders… he's really most insistent.”

“Would one measly hour make that much of a difference?”

During the long silence that followed, Killian waited with bated breath, trying to continue the charade of slumber. Finally, the nurse said,

“I can give it IM, which takes longer to metabolize. He’ll get the required meds, and you’ll get your questioning time.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back--have to get a different needle.”

Killian heard her shuffle away as the IV swung to a halt. He felt Emma brush her hand along his arm, probably in silent apology. The drug would complicate things, for certain, but wouldn't truly be anything his Master would be suspicious of. It knew of his capture, and probably even his arrival at the hospital. It would likely be pleased at his escape and return, even if he did have to collapse and sleep it off halfway back to its lair.

“Has he said anything of value?” wondered Jones.

“Well… not really. Nothing we didn’t already know.”

“I’m sorry.”

Gently, trying to appear as if she didn’t want to wake him, Emma wriggled her hand beneath Killian’s. Then she sighed.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Detective, but you look awful.”

Killian heard a familiar, rueful breath of laughter. 

“Who would believe that nearly all of it could be attributed to that man there?”

Emma snickered back. “He’s a fighter, that’s for sure.”

Over the sound of the nurse’s returning footsteps, Emma added,

“Look, I appreciate the support, Killian, but you don’t have to stay. Go home; get some sleep. I’ll pass on any information I get here.”

The nurse folded back the blanket covering Killian’s right leg, and he growled faintly in feigned, sleepy annoyance, while truly wondering what the hell she was playing at. When she’d said ‘IM,’ he’d been expecting a jab in the arm. Meanwhile, Jones was responding to Emma’s suggestion.

“Thank you, Emma, but I’d like to stay. An extra set of ears can sometimes make all the difference in a case like this.”

Emma was thinking furiously; Killian could tell. Startled by the cold touch of an alcohol wipe on his outer thigh, his grumbling flinch was not at all an act.

“Sorry, Killian,” murmured the nurse. She pinched the muscle with one hand, adding, “Quick little mosquito bite, and you can go back to sleep.”

Emma squeezed his hand in solidarity, placing the other hand on his shoulder in a comforting manner. The long needle stung his thigh, the sedative drug forming an aching pool within the muscle.

“At least go have something to eat,” Emma urged Jones. “I’ll call you and you can listen in if he starts talking.”

Plucking the needle from Killian’s throbbing leg, the nurse spread a Band-Aid over the sore spot. “All done.”

While she rearranged the blankets, Emma asked casually,

“You wouldn’t happen to have a couple extra Band-Aids with you, would you? I've got some hangnails annoying the hell out of me right now.”

“Lemme see… yup, here you go!”

“Thanks.” Emma’s hand left his shoulder, presumably to take the proffered bandages.

“I’ll be back in probably an hour to check on him,” promised the nurse. “In the meantime, if you notice anything unusual, don’t hesitate to press the call button.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She bustled out of the room, taking her damn needle with her. Emma patted Killian’s shoulder in sympathy.

“Suppose I might at least get something to drink, if I can manage my wallet with numb fingers.”

Killian could hear the sheepish smile on Jones’ face as he said the words, and he tried not to cringe. He’d done his best not to injure the other man too severely, but still felt remorseful about what had been necessary.

“Good luck,” Emma replied. “See you in a bit.”

As soon as Jones’ footsteps had retreated, Emma sat back with a sigh. “Well, that sucked. Sorry, Killian.”

Killian stretched gently and dragged his eyes open, blinking. Emma winced at him.

“Are you still going to be able to make it?” She seemed to be doing what he was: acting as if they didn’t know anything about what lay in store for him at the end of his trek. He nodded unenthusiastically. In truth, if he ignored the drug side effects, he actually did feel stronger than he had in weeks, which he credited to whatever volume of replacement blood he’d received so far. 

“Hopefully at least beyond the point of rediscovery.”

Emma pulled back his blankets. “I’ll do what I can to put ‘em on the wrong track.” She reached into her pocket, retrieving her keys. “Why don’t you take the Bug? You’ll get farther. Just… you know. Pull over _well before_ you start to fall asleep.”

Fighting the sudden chill, Killian accepted the keys as he gathered the strength required to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. His head was spinning alarmingly and he wondered for a moment whether he would need to reassess the distance he had in him. Emma studied the machine controlling the flow of donor blood and saline into his arm; after a moment, she was able to decipher how to pause its program. Setting aside one of the Band-Aids she’d begged off the nurse, Emma reached for the tape securing the catheter to his forearm. Then she stopped.

“Emma?”

A sudden sob ripped through her; she put a hand to her mouth as if stifling a cough. She couldn’t look at him.

Grim, Killian glanced a the door. “We don’t have a lot of time, love.”

She scrubbed at her eyes with one hand while picking at the corner of the tape with the other. “It’s… it’s just different, you know? Talking about it versus actually _doing_ it. Actually helping you ditch the hospital and go back to--” 

Choked by another sob, she didn’t finish the thought. Killian reached up to clasp her wrist briefly before allowing her to continue to work.

“I know.”

She managed to get one side of the tape undone with the minimal amount of arm hairs as casualties. “It just feels like… if you don’t come back… this is me, killing you, right now. Taking out this IV that could be saving your life, it’s just the same as…”

Emma shuddered, and Killian knew she was picturing that awful night with Excalibur, on the banks of the river. How it felt to run him through with her own hands. As if trying to purge the memory, she violently stripped the remaining tape from his arm, pulling the catheter right along with it and spattering small droplets of blood everywhere. Killian sat passively, allowing the outburst. For the moment.

In anger, Emma crumpled the sticky tape and tossed the wad onto the floor, then used the bedsheet to scrub at the smear of blood gathering around the puncture site. She tore open a Band-Aid and pressed it in place with a shuddering sigh.

“Don't be concerned about the silly IV; my good friend Z seems to have an unlimited supply of the damn things.”

It wasn’t about the IV, of course. Nor even the concept of proper medical care as a whole. Killian pulled his arm away from her attempts to apply pressure over the Band-Aid and reached up to stroke her face. The rough brand scar on his palm caused a tiny wince from her as it brushed her cheek.

“It isn’t you,” he murmured. “It won’t be you.”

Silent, she watched his face. Unconvinced. Unplacated. She pressed his hand deeper into her flesh and raked him with her gaze, as if burning his features and new, unfamiliar scars into her memory. He saw the moment of surrender. The light left her eyes and they became cold, tired points of vacuum. Outer space without stars. At last, her voice came through the death mask, low and flat.

“Why us?”

A shade above bitter, Killian said,

“We’re the heroes.”

A somber, unsurprised nod, and then Emma was back in motion. But with inexplicable intent. Killian couldn’t contain the elevating eyebrow as she shed her jacket and prepared to lift her t-shirt. She waved her hand in vague explanation.

“I don’t know how most of this crap works. But if it turns off suddenly, or loses input, it might alert the nurse’s station, and we don’t want that, right? So we switch, as fast as we can. Hopefully we can set it up reading me, and they’ll think you just rolled over or something.”

Glancing down at the EKG leads attached to his chest, Killian’s skeptical expression didn’t change. “And I’m meant to have thought of this myself, am I?”

“You’re smarter than you look.”

He missed the normal playful tone with which she would have teased him. But she was still stiff, heartless, carefully on guard. Ready now, the t-shirt rolled up and tucked under her chin but with her arms still in their sleeves, she sat beside him. Testing the slack in the wires, she took a breath and frowned in concentration.

“Lemme do it,” she instructed quietly. “You just keep an eye on the door.”

Killian nodded and did as ordered, but watched out of the corner of his eye. Emma dug her nails beneath the first EKG lead, and he knew she was attempting to take as much of the sticky conducting gel with it to ensure a solid connection. She paused to estimate the proper placement on her own chest--right in the center above the sternum--then brutally ripped the pad off of him and slapped it on herself. The loss of a few chest hairs left stinging patches behind as Emma repeated the process twice more. Successfully, by the sound of it: the machine behind them beeped a couple of queries as the transfer took place, but no obnoxious alarm rent the afternoon stillness.

“Not bad, Swan,” Killian praised. He ducked out of the way of the gathered leads while Emma adjusted her shirt back down and checked the monitor for functionality.

“The question will be whether I can stand pretending to be unconscious until someone discovers me.” Emma reached up, unclipped the pulse oximeter from his earlobe, and clamped it onto her own. She made a face. “Think I prefer the fingertip one.”

“Aye, well, it does tend to get in the way when one has only five fingers at one’s disposal.”

The last piece of equipment was the blood pressure cuff, which was easy enough to slip off and then adjust to fit her bicep. And then Killian was free.

He stood with appropriate caution, but still nearly fell--twice--as vertigo, generalized weakness, and drug side effects played havoc with his balance. Emma watched with clenched teeth, no doubt struggling with the urge to tackle him and wrestle him back into bed, the rest of the world be damned. But she contained herself, he clung stubbornly to his equilibrium, and they were again faced with the reality of the moment. Cautiously, Emma got up, holding the EKG sensors in place. She assessed him briefly, cracks in the emotionless mask allowing both tender concern and raging terror to leak

“You gonna be okay, hiking in _that?”_

Killian glanced down at his gown with a shrug. “It’s no worse than the sackcloth.”

“And… your feet? What about…” She trailed off, and against his better judgment, Killian stepped forward and wrapped her in an embrace. For the sake of his Master, though, he kept his mind on the goodbye, on his concern for Emma. On that disturbing mantra. _Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead..._ Muffled into his chest came the words they both dreaded:

“You’d better go.”

Emma was dry-eyed and tight-lipped as she stepped back from him. He turned toward the window. And neither of them said what was foremost in their hearts.

_I love you._


	33. Chapter 33

**_Present (Friday, continued)…_**

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Killian’s Master, its voice booming in the surveillance room, as menacing as he had ever heard it. Slowly, Killian lay the sword on the table next to the final monitor, raising his mangled stump as if in surrender while keeping his right side shielded from view.

“I… was…”

Sudden peals of laughter split the air as the video streams came to abrupt life. Hope as an infant, giggling hysterically at the antics of her parents. Joining her, a recording of Queen Regina’s coronation, when peoples of all realms had united in joyous support. A jubilant Storybrooke High School football team celebrating a win over their new rivals from Agrabah. The wildest group dance from Robin and Alice’s wedding reception. And then, despite never having had the chance to identify the final camera, another hijacked feed: the night when Ursula had joined the community symphony for a command performance, her regained voice simply enchanting.

The Master took a step back, shuddering and pressing both claws to its head. It was in obvious discomfort as it growled,

“How… how have you…?”

Killian drew one of the daggers from its bandage sheath, then the other. “Not such a pain enthusiast when you’re the recipient, are you?”

“Turn… it… off!” snarled the creature, taking another step toward the doorway. It shook and curled in on itself like a dying spider. Killian allowed himself a single preparatory breath before he struck.

The first dagger clattered against monster’s thick carapace, barely even nicking its immaculate waistcoat. But the second buried itself to the hilt in the creature’s thick jowls, eliciting a roar of rage and pain. Echoing its animal howl, Killian snatched up the sword, vaulted over an unconscious slave, and swung with all of his strength.

The blade bounced harmlessly off a shielding pincer, sending shock waves all the way up to Killian’s shoulder. Just the faintest of dents in the chitin hinted at the blow’s landing zone. With another yell of exertion, he lopped off an approaching tentacle. The severed end convulsed on the ground and leaked the same purple blood that now spurted from the spasming stump. Killian kicked aside the mess and couldn't help feeling a small spark of glee. To the accompaniment of monstrous shrieks, contrasting wildly with the looped positivity feeds, Killian aimed for the Master’s unprotected throat. He ducked a flailing half-tentacle and drove the sword forward in a mighty thrust. The adrenaline of the moment and certainty of victory muted every pain, leaving only focused determination. Now this demon would die.

The Master’s pincer seemed to move faster than physically possible. It shot forward to catch the blade in an iron grip, ceasing all momentum. In desperate frustration, Killian heaved his weight on top of the sword, trying to yank it from the claw. But it was stuck fast. And then the Master rose, fiery hatred blazing in its eyes. Violet flecks sprinkled its face and clothing. It straightened to its full, towering height, no longer quivering, no longer vulnerable.

Killian slipped on the Master’s blood as it wrenched the sword from his hand. He went down hard, but even on hip and elbow, he fought. The fallen dagger lay just out of reach. He rolled stiffly over, stretching, reaching…

His fingers closed around the hilt, and he felt a surge of frantic hope. But then the remaining tentacle lassoed his wrist. Before he could even struggle, it jerked upward with such force that it wrenched his shoulder right out of its socket. Killian cried out, managing to keep a futile hold on the dagger as he was hauled to his feet. Never had he wished harder to have his other hand back. Despite the pain in his shoulder and a rush of dizziness, he lashed out with the ring in his wrist, aiming for the blade still embedded in his Master’s neck.

He missed. The tentacle pulled sharply and he could do nothing but follow as his damaged shoulder instinctively protected itself. His ring was caught by the half-tentacle, which retained its functionality despite the blood still flowing. Two crab legs stabbed down atop his feet, pinning them in place. And hopeless tears filled Killian’s eyes. Now he awaited only his death. The plan had failed. 

Emma would hear.

Casually, his Master used its unoccupied claw to pluck the dagger from its neck. A purple trail soon stained the cotton collar below. It inspected the bloodsoaked blade for the space of a heartbeat, barely glancing at Killian before plunging the weapon into his chest.

Killian screamed. Hope laughed. The high schoolers cheered and the revelers applauded.

The Vocivore brought the point of the sword up under Killian’s chin. It fastidiously brushed down and straightened its waistcoat before speaking, a faint raggedness to its tone giving the only hint of continued strain.

“Very clever, Tripod. Just not enough. But I will admit, you almost succeeded where no one has ever come close before.” It pressed harder with the blade, and Killian lacked the strength or will to pull away. His Master watched the tears fall, read the surrender in its slave’s eyes. And it lowered the sword ever so slightly. “You will die. Not out of revenge or hatred, for you are still my favorite Voice. But out of respect for you as a foe, and out of necessity because of the threat you still pose.”

The Master allowed the sword point to rest on the ground. “That isn’t to say that I won’t extract every _ounce_ of energy from you first. I don’t know how you’ve resisted my will for so long, nor how you managed to hide your scheme from me. But your final hours will be spent wishing you had surrendered at the first. _Begging_ me to end it.”

Carelessly, his Master tossed the sword at the power strip; sparks flew as it severed the cord, and the sounds of victory cut to the silence of defeat.

Quaking with shock and anguish, Killian could barely keep to his feet. He felt his Master stroke a claw down his cheek, and it whispered,

“But I’m still your Master, Tripod. And _I_ will decide when you are to die.”

*****

Emma sat frozen, staring at her phone, silent tears streaming down her face. Waiting for the inevitable, for that final blow, the last scream, the last beat of Killian’s heart. The atmosphere was heavy with failure despite the happy moments projected on each computer screen. Neither one of the room’s occupants could hear the looped audio chaos anymore.

Jones’ face darkened with resolve. He got to his feet, closed both laptops within reach, and marched to Emma’s side.

“We’re not done yet,” he announced. Emma blinked up at him through puffy eyelids.

“You heard the bastard: it’s going to kill him.”

No ounce of hope tempered her words; she spoke robotically, as if her soul were somehow with Killian as he was dragged from the surveillance room. Jones took her hand in his.

“Aye, but there’s time yet. What do you say we put it to good use?”

Emma looked at him with such desolation that he was tempted to throw up his hands and allow her to grieve in peace. But he would never forgive himself for that… and he already had the first inkling of a plan. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Are you familiar with the Wookiee prisoner gag?”


	34. Chapter 34

**_Present (Friday, continued…)_ **

“This is crazy.”

Jones heaved the steering wheel into a sharp right turn as he answered. “Emma, I didn't mean to make you feel as if you have to do this. I know you have Hope to think about.”

Emma gave him a look. “You're going to do it either way, aren't you?”

“You’d have to come up with something pretty damn convincing to talk me out of it.”

“What about this: the cat’s out of the bag now, so there's no reason to keep things a secret anymore. We could get more people involved and go in as a group.”

“We could,” he agreed. “But then we would be right back where we were a month ago. A bloodbath. The Master is likely distracted enough for the two of us to sneak in, but anything larger would pull his attention away and he would certainly direct his focus on controlling the battle.”

The car screeched to a halt in front of the sheriff station and Jones killed the engine, but he turned to face her. “We have a unique opportunity here, Emma, and I feel we'd be remiss if we didn't take it. The slaves are accustomed to seeing this face around. I don't think they'll stop me. I can get in close and blow the Master’s bloody head off, and then everyone can come home. But it's entirely up to you whether you want to accompany me or not.”

With a resigned sigh, Emma opened the car door and clambered out. 

“You're not protected from his mind control,” she pointed out, but didn't wait for him before marching up to the office door.

“I won't be in his presence for very long,” he replied as he followed her inside. “However, that _is_ a tick in the ‘pros’ column for having a partner who's immune.”

“What if the slaves frisk us for weapons?”

“Well, then we may just have to improvise. But really, how likely do you think that is? These people are firmly convinced of their peers’ total devotion to their Master. Do you think it would even cross their minds that one of their own would smuggle in illicit weapons?”

They had reached Emma's office. Tossing her bag on a desk, she headed straight for a box in the corner. When she lifted the lid, Jones could see a pile of ragged burlap shoved inside; presumably, they were the garments removed from hospitalized slaves to be stored as evidence. She pulled out a smock, shook it, and tossed it at him, saying, 

“Get changed, slave. I'm going to see what I can do about a collar and wrist ring for you.”

Jones stripped down to his boxers as quickly as he could, even removing the attachment for his prosthetic hand. After he slipped the sackcloth over his head, he tucked stun gun and pistol into the waistband of his undergarment, praying that the shapes weren't too noticeable underneath his overly large slave costume. Emma returned shortly with an unlocked collar and a coat hanger in hand. Without a word, she opened the collar and approached, lifting it toward his neck as she avoided meeting his eyes. Jones held himself still, and as she snapped it closed and fastened the padlock, he found himself breathing faster with instinctive panic at the unpleasant sensation. Emma stepped back and surveyed him critically.

“You could maybe have passed for the Killian of three weeks ago. I’m not so sure about now.”

“Not much to be done about that on short notice,” replied Jones, struggling to resist the urge to tug on the metal encircling his neck. “The collar’s camera has been disabled, I take it?”

Emma nodded absently, still caught up on how healthy he looked compared to Killian, despite the gruesome facial wound.

“Maybe some makeup will up the gaunt factor.” She began twisting the flexible hanger into an arc resembling the ring attached to Killian's wrist. 

“It's quite a bit thicker than this,” she admitted, “but maybe they won't look too closely at it.”

After snipping the shaped end to an appropriate length, she begin to unroll an Ace bandage. Jones moved closer, extending his arm to allow her to wrap the ring in place.

“It's not a bad likeness,” he remarked as the replica took shape. “Who would have guessed the skills honed by creating such impressive Halloween costumes for Hope would be called into service like this?”

Emma tightened the last knot. Jones now sported his very own wrist ring, wrapped in a bandage as it had been when Killian had left the hospital… minus the impaling stake attachment point, of course. The very idea made him shudder with revulsion. As idiotic and reckless as Killian and Emma’s plan had been, as much pain as it had brought those closest to them, with as much loss of integrity as they would face once the truth got out, they had both certainly paid enough of a price for it.

Emma had already moved on. She opened the zipper of a pouch she had brought from home, having shoved what sounded like the entire contents of her vanity inside. Reversing the process now, she dumped tubes and bottles all over her desk in an attempt to peruse the options quickly. 

"Turns out I've had less practice at the more macabre Halloween costumes," she muttered but grabbed a small container of something dark. "Close your eyes."

Jones remained patiently still while she brushed, daubed, and smeared onto his face whatever colors she thought would lend to the deception. Working with extra caution around his bruises, she finally murmured,

"We're gonna need to be in control of our thoughts and emotions. Even... occupied... we have to assume the Master would notice two hopeful people coming into his presence. Think you can pull off a convincing despair?”

“No worries on that account,” Jones replied quietly. “I have lifetimes of experience to draw off of.”

“Yeah,” was Emma's response. Jones was relieved when she steered clear of the gash under his eye. “I guess you do.”

She paused, thinking and studying her handiwork. Deciding to add more shading to the hollows of his cheeks, she added,

“A little bit of fear is probably okay, which is good, because I don't think I could…”

Emma froze and didn't finish the thought, and Jones could sense her alarm before she even drew a sharp breath. His eyes snapped open to see her staring into the distance, obviously listening intently to her hidden earpiece. Tears balanced on her lower lids and she seemed to be holding her breath.

“Emma? What's wrong? Is it... Is he…?”

Emma, a statue of apprehensive horror, did not answer for the longest time. Jones balled his hand into a fist. Waiting. Steeling himself for the worst.

All the air left Emma's lungs in a long, shuddering breath. Half-strangled sobs became quiet sniffles, she shook her head, wiped tears on her sleeve.

“He's still there,” said her lips. _Still screaming,_ said her eyes. And Jones snatched his keys from the desktop.

“Let's go.”

*****

The thud of flesh and bone striking solid wood reverberated through the sanctuary, followed shortly by a weak cry of pain. The echoes faded as uneasy pigeon comments drifted down from above.

Killian could not draw a full breath. The blade between his ribs felt like a continual stream of molten lava, filling his chest cavity and scalding his lungs with each feeble twitch of his diaphragm. He was dimly aware of the dagger he still clutched in his trembling hand, and when his Master moved closer, he attempted to ward the monster off, but his damaged shoulder would not allow significant movement of his arm. The wide, crooked-toothed mouth formed into a derisive sneer. Looming, Killian’s Master blinked down at its treacherous slave lying helplessly where he had been flung, bent and bleeding against the broken altar.

Scornful eyes turned upon the useless dagger, and Killian could do nothing to prevent clawed fingers from tearing it out of his grasp. His wrist, still encircled by the half-tentacle, fell slack over his abdomen.

“In case you’re tempted to move…” growled his Master in haughty explanation. It yanked its tentacle heavenward, roughly hauling Killian’s arm up with it. His displaced shoulder ground against the wrong part of the socket, further aggravating overstretched tendons and ligaments, but Killian’s shout of pain was cut short by a lack of air. He lurched sideways in a desperate attempt to reduce the movement of the injured joint; his Master only pulled harder.

“I’ve been missing out,” hissed the Vocivore over Killian’s feeble vocalizations. “All this time, I have enjoyed your service, gleaning exceptional pleasure from our Sessions, thinking your emotions genuine. How could they not be, as nuanced, complex, and delicious as they were?” 

It shoved Killian’s wrist and hand against the front side of the altar, just above a break in the gold filigree that revealed solid wood beneath. His restrained wrist was directly in line with and not far from his right ear.

“But now,” continued Killian’s Master as it pried open his curled fingers, one by one, “I taste your true despair. And it is _exquisite._ ”

A bout of violent tremors seized Killian then, jolting his injured shoulder and the dagger embedded in his chest. His Master sneered as he gulped small, unsatisfying breaths.

“It would be a pity for your condition to finish you off before I get a chance to enjoy you one last time. But I suppose that is up to the fates to decide.” It examined the weapon in its hand, rocking it back and forth between two of its seven fingers. Then it tightened its grip on the handle and turned the point toward the front face of the altar. Occupied by his misery and the struggle to breathe, Killian had no attention to spare.

He heard it before he felt it. The thud of the dagger burying itself deep into the wood of the altar. Then the searing agony of the blade plunging into his palm, through his hand, and out the back. Pinning him brutally in place against the symbol of sacrifice.

Killian’s screams were short and muffled and quickly became erratic groans between panicked gasps for air. Instinct drove him to reach for the injury with his handless arm, only to be stopped by a warning surge of anguish in his chest. Gleefully watching the writhing, his Master uncurled its tentacle and scuttled back to admire the view.

PERFECT.

All support for the limb now removed, the entire dead weight of Killian’s arm hung from the impaled hand. He shivered uncontrollably, each tremor only heightening his unbearable pain. A buzzing, prickly numbness already flooded his fingertips as compressed nerves and a weakened circulatory system took their toll. In stark contrast, the blade burned within his flesh, cutting a minutely wider path with every wiggle. Should it not become lodged against one of the delicate metacarpal bones nearby, Killian could imagine it continuing to slice through muscle, tendon, blood vessel, and skin until it finally exited between two fingers and freed his arm. But in all likelihood, he would be long dead by then.

And that was the bottom line. Ordinarily, he would be fixated on the damage to his only hand, terrified that it could not be repaired, leaving him permanently helpless. But that didn’t matter now. Not on his death day.

Killian’s Master listened to his moans become soft whimpers, then fade to labored breaths. It lifted his lolling head and was rewarded by a renewed flash of pain visible on the tear-streaked face. It cupped his chin through another round of involuntary spasms. Then it let go.

“You will remain here while I get cleaned up.”

It couldn’t have been expecting a response. The fraud uncovered, there was no motivation for an obedient _Yes, Master._ And none was forthcoming. Instead, Killian shuddered and wheezed,

“Z… is dead…”

He didn’t know what compelled him to make that statement. Maybe some part of him wanted Emma to know, although there wasn’t a lot she could do with the information. The Vocivore simply smirked.

“Your concern for my well-being is noted. However, I am not limited to crude human methods of healing.” It lifted the stump of its severed tentacle, which had stopped bleeding and appeared to be causing its owner no great discomfort. “With some luck, my Tripod, you will provide the screams I need to complete the process.”

Killian closed his eyes, beyond caring. Of course this beast possessed accelerated healing abilities. Just one more reason it could never be defeated. For an instant, he felt a pang of regret. If only they would have vetoed this doomed mission from the start. They might still be in the same predicament, but Killian could be spending his final moments among loved ones. Not alone, skewered to a broken altar inside a crumbling church while he slowly suffocated, bled to death, or succumbed to whatever other malady might eventually claim him.

The monster clicked its dignified way down the center aisle toward the front entrance. Two guard slaves heaved the crooked door open for their Master. And Killian gave in to tears of pain and despair.


	35. Chapter 35

**_Present (Friday, continued)..._ **

Emma was mostly silent during the ride to the edges of the Master’s territory, and Jones knew she was listening. As if she could somehow keep her husband alive by monitoring his breathing. Jones saw no reason to disrupt her concentration, illogical as it was. Regardless of what she heard, and what state Killian was in when they reached him--whether it was a rescue or a recovery--Jones had resolved to go in no matter what. This monster had to be stopped.

The paved road gave way to gravel, then dirt. About a quarter of a mile farther along, they would reach the invisible border, that line where any attempts to go deeper into the forest had always been met with scores of guard slaves. Jones pulled the car over. They could drive in and see how far they got before being stopped, or if he were callous enough, faced the necessity of mowing down anyone standing in their way. But they had decided that such a move would attract too much attention and give away their intentions before they had a chance to sneak into the Master’s presence. Shutting off the engine, Jones took a deep breath.

“Ready?”

Emma’s response was to reach for the door handle. Jones snagged her elbow, saying,

“Wait.”

She turned back to him, a question in her faraway gaze. The detective leaned forward, opened the glovebox, and hauled out the length of rope he’d stashed there immediately after exiting the sheriff office. 

“In case we’re being watched,” he explained, then began binding Emma’s hands together. Seconds later, intimidating knots hung from her wrists, looking very complicated and difficult to untie. But Jones lifted a trailing end of rope. “Just give this bit a sharp tug, and you’re free.”

After Emma had indicated her understanding, Jones got out of the car and went around to open her door. For the sake of any observers, he grabbed her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. She played along with a few exaggerated struggles, but eventually pretended to give in, hanging her head in mock dejection. Jones adjusted his grip on her, then pulled her forward, propelling her in the direction of the Master’s mysterious compound. 

*****

Killian could not die. Not for lack of trying; he was doing everything in his power to let go. Having been through the process multiple times before, he knew that he was close. Individual points of anguish had faded to a generalized dull ache. The short, desperate gasps of breath took more strength than he had, yet kept coming despite all odds. His pulse, weak and erratic as it was, continue to throb in each gruesome wound. And every time Killian succumbed to the dark, thinking that he would at last be set free from his misery, he came back, weaker than before and cursing his continued existence.

Because there was no good reason for the prolonged suffering. Emma could not save him this time, nor would he want her to make the attempt. It would only result in her own capture, torture, and death. With no way to defeat the Master, she may not have much time herself, but perhaps someone would come up with a last-minute solution to save them all. He wanted that chance for her. And the longer he remained alive, the greater the temptation for her to cast aside reason and come after him.

He suddenly remembered the transmitter tucked beneath the bandage around his stump. Maybe that was it. Was his subconscious clinging to life in order to allow him time to hide the device within the Master’s lair? One final purpose for his time amongst the living?

Killian shifted his weight just fractionally. Even that small effort brought each of his pains roaring back to life and the church grew hazy once again. But he remained conscious. With a silent growl, he inched his forearm up his side. Pectoral muscles impaled by the dagger bulged with the work of shifting his left shoulder. He could feel a dull grinding within his chest as the blade scraped against bone. His neck, hand, and shoulder all blazed in excruciating spasms as he slowly turned his head toward his target.

The bandage was still impossibly out of reach. Tears blurred his dimming vision. He drew one more gulp of searing magma, and then, with an agonized shout, heaved his wrist up to shoulder height.

Shuddering, panting with the terrible cost of effort, Killian dug his teeth into the loose knot securing the bandage. He knew exactly where to pull, yet could hardly summon the strength to retain his hold on the linen. Once, twice it slipped free while he whined in exhausted frustration. Bloody thing, keeping him alive only to exacerbate his pain. His fingers twitched a futile attempt to help; a thousand amps of lightning leapt in crooked arcs from impaled palm to fingertips and back, down his immobile arm and out through his misshapen shoulder. A sob echoed in his ears as he tore savagely into the bandage once again, half in continued removal attempts and half as a way to contain the worsening pain.

Finally, the knot gave way. The loose end circled his arm once, unwinding of its own accord before settling gently near his elbow. Killian ignored it; his prize was nearly within reach. He could feel the small bit of metal pressing against his inner forearm, its pointed ends slightly itchy under the linen. He tugged harder with his teeth. More of the bandage came loose. His chest ached unbearably.

Despite the whistling hum in his ears, Killian heard the tiny but welcome sound of the transmitter pinging onto the cold stone at his side. Mission accomplished.

He briefly considered attempting to wrestle the dagger free of his chest. That would certainly speed up the rate at which he was losing blood and, if nothing else, might help him to slip into pain-free oblivion and not wake up this time. But even with the ring on his wrist, he would probably only end up jostling the blade, not removing it entirely. Not worth the prospect of amplified pain. Killian gritted his teeth and allowed his arm to flop back down to the ground.

Even with most head movement restricted by the screws in his neck, Killian could just make out the tiny glint of metal, the transmitter lying a few inches from where his arm had come to rest. Better hide it. Struggling to focus the double image, Killian aligned the apex of the ring with the transmitter. He managed to brush the speck of metal under the lip of the altar, wincing at the resulting flash of pain in his chest. But the technology was now less likely to be found, and Storybrooke could continue to listen in on their new nemesis in secret.

Killian thought of who was on the other end, and his throat immediately tightened in immense regret. He had the easy part, leaving. But his Swan would have to once again face life without him.

“Emma,” he breathed. He couldn't be certain if she could even hear him. “I love you.”

He tensed as an overwhelming wave of pain washed over him. After it had subsided a bit, he growled a moan, then continued. 

“Should you... happen to be... victorious…”

He was finding it difficult to get more than three or four words out between breaths. The fire in his chest seemed to be shrinking his lungs, charring them into brittle, inelastic cinders.

“...and feel safe... bringing Hope home…”

He pulled several agonized, wheezing breaths and forced himself to continue. 

“...make sure... she always knows... how much I love her.”

Now blinded by tears and suffocating as much by emotion as by his wounds, Killian closed his eyes and rested his head back against the gilded altar. He would never have time to express everything in his heart, anyway.

The heavy front door creaked open, its echoes ominous in the unfeeling sanctuary. Avian wings fluttered noisily in the rafters. And Killian could not contain a sob of dread.

“Swan,” he whispered, almost a whine. “Please, love…” A shudder, half terror and half anguish, wracked his broken body as the scuttle of giant crab legs grew louder.

“Please… Don’t listen to this...”

*****

Whatever Emma was hearing had her in tears. 

Jones couldn’t ask her about it, of course. In fact, he tried to pretend like he knew: he was, after all, bringing a new captive into his Master’s presence. She had every reason to be crying. And now, well within the monster’s territory, they had lost the option of turning back, even if they were too late to save Killian. So they pressed forward, Jones directing Emma as she stumbled along, not really paying attention to her surroundings.

Their plot was working so far. They had encountered at least a dozen armed slaves patrolling the forest; each time, the smock-garbed men had taken one glance at Jones and his prisoner and let them pass without challenge. But he couldn’t allow the relief. Instead, he thought of Alice.

Not the exuberant, larger-than-life woman of today, but the one from… _then._

Years and years spent imprisoned and alone. The last person in the world to deserve it, paying an awful price for all of his mistakes and failures. 

He imagined her pacing the confines of the tower, cursing his name, desperate for love and human contact. Losing hope, sinking further into hopelessness with each passing day, week, month. _Year._

All of the lost opportunities. The moments he should have had with her. The discoveries, the joys of blossoming, even the challenges of developing independent thought and rationale. Those beautiful, formative years from adolescence to young adulthood, gone forever. He’d missed them all.

Killian Jones, king of despair, walked right into the Vocivore’s presence undetected. No mental shielding necessary.


	36. Chapter 36

**_Present (Friday, continued)…_ **

The terrible, grating screech of the church's crooked door negated any chance of sneaking in unnoticed, but Jones somehow doubted that stealth was ever Emma's intent. She stormed into the cathedral, yanking her arm from his pretend grip, unraveling the ropes in an explosion of uncontained fury. 

"Get away from him, you bastard!!"

Jones caught a brief glimpse of an enormous hulking figure near the opposite end of the sanctuary, its hunched bulk dappled with tinted sunlight, but then his attention turned to a more pressing matter: the group of guard slaves clambering to their feet along either wall. He drew his stun gun and took aim. He could not worry about Emma now; his only chance of helping would be to watch her back.

The continuous ache from his injured sternum grew ever sharper with each squeeze of the trigger; in fact, it seemed to be radiating gradually upward in bursts, like the pulse of blood through his veins. He ignored it and sought a way to blockade themselves inside, to keep out further foes until the Master could be subdued. He heard Emma's gun roaring as she stalked down the center aisle, apparently willing to gamble that Killian would not be struck by a stray bullet. 

Another stunned slave went down hard near a tipped pew. Jones bent to grasp the seat, prepared to drag the entire bench in front of the door. They had all the makings of a respectable barricade, if he could only… 

His hand flew to his chest with the first pull as massive, crushing pain accompanied the effort, leaving him staggered and breathless, feeling exactly where he'd been three years ago, when the poison in his heart was at its strongest. But that couldn't be... he was cured... it was impossible for…

_KNEEL._

The detective found himself on his knees even before the voice had finished reverberating through his mind. He shook his head, disoriented and still clutching his chest. The Master... it was coming... and he had to…

More grim slaves marched through the door, and Jones meant to stun them, but found he could not raise his gun. 

He really ought to warn Emma.

_NO._

He didn't. Couldn't. 

The sheriff put up a good struggle but was quickly overwhelmed. 

So was he, unnecessarily. Fellow slaves surrounded him. Not touching, knowing he was as good as bound, there on his knees with his Master's will pressing down.  


Emma snarled, a wild sound of pure frustration. The beast on the dais rose and swiveled to face the intruders. Behind it, partially obscured by gnarled crab legs and writhing tentacles, slumped Killian, ashen and still.

The Master, despite an obvious bullet wound through its shoulder, exuded calm. It smiled coldly.

"Sheriff. And Tripod the Second. I've been waiting for this day." It used a handkerchief to clean ominously human-looking blood from its long fingers as it took a step closer. Emma started cussing the monster out; without emotion, it waved a mild hand and the nearest slave drove a fist into her middle. She reeled, silenced, the wind driven from her lungs.

A conflicted Jones knew he ought to take action but could not rise to his feet. No hands held him down; he was being restrained by an invisible force equally as effective. He found himself staring up into the Master's beady eyes. It leered down at him, and it seemed as if it were directly in front of him, not 15 yards away. 

"This other human, the one who shares your face... he is a special favorite of mine," said the Master, glancing back at what very well could be Killian's corpse. "I've been... rather rough with him. I'm afraid I may have used him all up." 

It scuttled down the steps, stopped briefly in front of Emma, and said, 

"I have enjoyed watching you, Sheriff. Your desperation. I don't normally get much pleasure from female Voices... but yours may be an exception." 

Still out of breath, Emma nevertheless took the opportunity to tell the Master exactly where it should go. Its only response was a condescending pat on the head before it moved away. 

The searing cramp in Jones' chest grew in intensity, and the small part of his mind that had so far evaded the Master's control wondered if he might be suffering an actual heart attack. In response to the stress of the situation, or the terror of what awaited him now that their plan had failed. He cringed back slightly as the monster neared, then heard the commanding voice again.

_GIVE YOURSELF._

He froze, trembling. The Vocivore stopped a few feet away. A tentacle slithered out from beneath its waistcoat and traced the healing gash on his cheek, prompting a flinch that would not come. Absently scratching at its torso, the Master continued exploring its new prize. 

"Thus far, you taste much the same, my three-legged one."

_SLAVE._

The tentacle snaked its way down his front, past the bandaged torso, lower, lower, until it found the bottom hem of the borrowed slave costume. It curled upward again, lost from view, and for an instant, his Master took on Mother Gothel’s face, her cold leer smothering him in disdain as she held him with her dark power.

"I am inclined to allow myself a more thorough introduction.” The voice and face gradually resolved back into the five-eyed monster, and the tentacle slipped away with obvious reluctance. “But perhaps I should save you for a day when I'm missing my first Tripod..." 

It pressed a claw to a violet stain in its clothing, looking vaguely miffed. "On the other hand, I do have need of extra energy just now. You can thank your sheriff friend over there while you scream for me, hmm?"

"Yes... Master..." came the strangled response, and Jones was hauled to his feet. He realized he still held the stun gun, and felt a sudden shame for having launched an attack on his Master. With eyes downcast, he offered the weapon to the imposing figure before him, who took it without a word. Its tentacle slithered down to Jones' handless wrist and curled around the fake ring there.

"Not a bad deception. But did you truly believe I would not sense your approach?"

"We..." 

Jones trailed off. What _had_ they been thinking? Why didn't they plan to immediately surrender themselves? In fact, what was the whole United Realms doing, plotting against their rightful Master? "I... I don't..."

He reached up to massage his eyes and found tears there. His chest throbbed fiercely; it was growing more and more difficult to breathe. His Master yanked suddenly on the coat hanger replica, which yielded easily, sliding free of the bandage holding it in place. A pincer joined the tentacle in exploration, gripping the cut end to bend the thin metal out of shape. 

"I've lost my assistant, the one who designed and placed the original stake-and-ring restraint in your counterpart over there. But it appears he won't need it for much longer. I'm sure we can arrange for you to inherit it."

Revulsion and fear crashed over him, followed immediately by more shame. His Master knew best. 

The Vocivore smiled, still rubbing at some invisible annoyance beneath the bloodstained breast pocket of its waistcoat. "For now, though... well… I was promised a scream."

It opened its pincer, revealing the now-straightened coat hanger entwined in its tentacle. A nod at the slave to Jones' right was enough to communicate its command, and the man snatched his wrist above his clenched fist and stretched his arm out toward their Master.

_SCREAM FOR ME._

The jagged, cut end of the hangar snagged the skin of his upturned wrist, trailing fire as it went, until, with a quick and brutal thrust, the metal was driven into the flesh beneath his tattoo. A grunt of pained surprise accompanied the instinctive struggle, despite orders to the contrary. But it was not enough to produce a scream, even when more force was applied and the flexible metal burrowed its way further underneath the painted skin. Jones fought weakly, tense and growling, feeling the scalding, tearing trauma as several inches of foreign body deformed the subcutaneous tissue of his forearm. 

Instead of continuing to enter smoothly, the metal suddenly bent at the puncture site, and the Master ceased the application of pressure. Its menacing face and jowls glistened with its own version of sweat, it was panting nearly as rapidly as Jones, and its five eyes reflected the barest hint of uneasy discomfort, but it continued to behave in a most dignified manner. 

"Tripod the First was like this, to begin with. Stoic beyond reason. I should have expected no less from his duplicate."

Jones squinted his eyes open, remorse tightening his throat at the thought of having disappointed his Master. He caught a glimpse of the metal protruding from his arm and cringed, but kept silent. He heard Emma renew her efforts to escape; what was she doing? Didn't she know their Master had every right to do with them as it wished? The Vocivore, however, paid her no mind, trusting its guards to keep control. Almost carelessly, it wound the remaining length of hanger around Jones' wrist, fashioning an obscene bracelet of pain. Then it took a single step back.

Its newest slave watched through watering eyes as the monster prodded its own chest and examined the fingers that came away dry. Then it seemed to catch sight of the stun gun still hanging from its other hand, and it rotated the weapon thoughtfully back and forth, lifting it to eye level.

"Non-lethal, yes?" it remarked. Jones nodded. It took no great feat of imagination to predict what would happen next, and his adrenaline levels skyrocketed, but he stood resolute. If his Master willed it... 

The muzzle came up to rest against Jones' left shoulder, just below the clavicle.

"At point-blank range?"

"I... don't know," murmured Jones, shivering. The gun pressed deeper; the Master's finger tightened on the trigger. 

"Don't!" Emma pleaded, and she received a wallop to the jaw for her efforts. 

_I REQUIRE YOUR SCREAMS._

The startling pop of discharge preceded a red-hot surge of gunpowder. The force of the electrified projectile twisted Jones sideways and back, out of the grip of his guards. The first blaze of agony was immediately disrupted by a storm of power frying every nerve ending, contracting muscles in uncoordinated spasms and outlining his twitching form in pins and needles. The jolt to his brain restored true awareness of self, just for an instant, so that the Master became once again the enemy they fought. Its grotesque figure flickered with the same sparks swirling in Jones' vision; its voice fled his frazzled thoughts. And Jones knew he was going to die.

He struck the ground in possession of the knowledge, aware of that fact more than any other. When the charge burned itself out and shattered senses slowly gathered into regained continuity, and his diaphragm coordinated enough to resume its vital work, Jones’ thoughts turned to his daughter.

It was like an apology and a goodbye, the clarity of emotion drowning out all physical pain. Regret and yearning, loneliness and grief. He couldn’t bear to leave her, not now, not after all they’d been through… it wouldn’t be fair…

Jones’ screams, when they came, weren’t for the metal buried in his forearm or the shattered shock projectile embedded in his shoulder, but for the familiar, terrible pain in his heart. 

And should anyone have chanced a look at the writhing, wounded man on the chapel floor, they may have noticed a pulsing green light shining between the fingers of his white-knuckled fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please check out the corresponding art on tumblr from cocohook38, depicting Detective Jones kneeling before his new Master! Stunning and a perfect visual to accompany this chapter!!! (Titled "Dear Tripod The Second"; search sancocnutclub for the Vocivore ltd tag)**


	37. Chapter 37

**_Present (Friday, continued)…_ **

Jones’ piercing cry throbbed in the new bruises scattered across Emma’s face, arms, and gut, but her own pain was the least of her concerns.

She’d heard the stun gun go off and watched her friend fall, transfixed by the very device meant to protect him. But not even the close-range shooting could account for his pure agony right now, not if her own Killian’s pain threshold was anything to go by.

In a panic and out of her mind with worry for both Joneses, she once again yanked fruitlessly against the slaves holding her captive. Despite apparent signs of their terminal neurological condition, they had no trouble, between the three of them, keeping her contained. She could only watch as Jones’ thrashing weakened, his cries turning to piteous moans. The Master had its back turned to her, but she could only assume it was reveling in the energy flowing all around it, probably healing its wounds and giving it even greater control over all of its helpless followers. 

This rescue plan had been doomed from the start, and they were fools for having gone through with it. She’d _told_ Jones. She’d given him clear warning: he had no protection, no Dark One residue or whatever the heck it was that granted her and Killian immunity. Two steps into the church, and Jones had been groveling, submitting to the vile thing currently soaking up his screams. And now they would die, all three of them. Storybrooke, the United Realms: all doomed. And Hope would grow up without a family, just as Emma had done. Okay, Belle would do her best, and the toddler seemed to like Gideon, so she would be okay… until Belle’s death. Followed by Rumple’s sacrifice, in whatever messed-up timeline it occurred. Where would she be then?

As always, Emma tried to squash her feelings into a rage-box. She was mad at Rumple for helping them with the plot. She was mad at Killian for undertaking it, for talking her into it, for making her suffer this month past, all for _nothing._ She was mad at herself, for not putting her foot down and demanding a better plan. But most of all, she was _furious_ with this hideous monstrosity before her. This bloody bastard that had taken so much from her, from her friends, hell, from all the countless people she didn’t even know. And it was going to _win?!_

But then, inexplicably, the Vocivore took a step back, then another, and all of its upper limbs curled in toward its chest. Its low groan seemed to shake the very foundations of the shabby sanctuary as it turned toward the altar. Emma read desperation in its eyes, and fear, and confusion. It reached a trembling claw in her direction, and the guards readied themselves for a command that never came. Emma saw with shocked bemusement that a sickly green glow emanated from the center of the creature’s heaving chest. And then the crab legs gave way.

The scream-eater crashed to the paving stones, its pointed legs folded awkwardly beneath its bulk. Emma could only gape as it tore the bow tie from around its neck in an attempt to get more oxygen. In obvious excruciating pain, it wheezed to no one in particular,

“What… is… this?”

The green light in the middle of its chest doubled in intensity, and the monster hunched forward, howling in pain. 

The slave to Emma’s left abruptly stumbled backward, clutching his head. His partners soon followed suit. Whatever the reason--whatever confusion and fear they were facing--Emma didn’t care. She had her freedom: time to destroy this monster once and for all. Emma snatched her pistol from a sobbing slave's hand, and he made no move to stop her. Whirling, she stalked straight up to the writhing spider-crab, whose eyes reflected a mute, baffled panic. 

“What’s the matter, Mr. Krabs? Choke on a sound wave? Two Killians more than you can handle?”

The thing looked deflated somehow; certainly it no longer towered in presence and appearance. On wobbly legs, it pushed itself up and scrabbled backwards, clumsy, suddenly unable to find purchase on the stones over which, just moments before, it had been so self-possessed.

Emma leveled her gun at the beast. She was going to enjoy this. She knew she should really deal a fatal blow up front, while she had the advantage and the creature was distracted by whatever currently affected it. But after all Killian had been through at its claws... after all she had endured, helplessly listening to him suffer... it deserved a little pain, and she deserved a chance to inflict it.

"I don't know where you came from," she growled, ruthlessly firing one bullet into a churning leg, "or how you got here." A second bullet tore into a tentacle coiled in agony. One left. "Your reign ends today. And you will not be causing anyone any more pain... ever... again."

Flecks of spittle flew from the Vocivore's mouth as it gasped for breath. Each soulless black eye leaked copious tears, which rained down on its now-filthy waistcoat. The green light radiating from its thorax grew brighter with each backwards step toward the altar. Despite its other wounds, the monster's upper limbs were all pressed over the pulsing light as if trying to massage away excruciating pain. The damaged leg buckled, the massive bulk wobbled, nearly tipping sideways, and Emma took aim at its repulsive, desperate face.

The monster performed a clumsy half-turn, its right hand reaching pathetically toward its favorite slave. "Tri...pod..."

An especially intense strobe of verdant light shone between its spasming fingers. A horrible, keening sigh groaned from its lungs, half whimper, half growl. Emma stepped closer, the barrel of her pistol pointed straight at the beast's temple.

"That's Killian, you bastard."

Then she pulled the trigger.

Immediately, while the echoes of the shot still rang in the rafters, the Vocivore's legs gave out and it crashed to the floor. Still upright, balanced on girth and a low center of gravity, but quiet and motionless. A trail of violet raindrops led all the way to the stone wall, where a yellowed parchment advertised a long-done charity drive. Or used to, before it was splattered with monster brains.

The green glow faded from view. Emma held her breath, half expecting the cursed thing to surge back to its feet with a roar of rage, ready to take out its anger on an unresisting Killian. But it stayed down. 10 seconds. 20. Emma slowly expelled a breath. Creeping forward, she boldly prodded the nearest armored leg; as expected, there was no response.

"Hope you like brimstone," she muttered, all the acid in her voice 100% genuine.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jones struggling to sit up. She holstered her weapon and hurried to offer support, noticing as she crouched that the green light had also vanished from his chest. Wincing, Jones clapped a trembling hand over the blood staining the tunic covering his shoulder. He nodded weary thanks for her assistance.

“I’m okay.” He sounded dazed and in pain, but otherwise lucid. He studied the inert form a few yards in front of him, shuddered, then focused farther away, to the other end of the room. “Go to him.”

Emma steeled herself and stood. In the whole time since entering the church, she had not seen one sign of life from her husband; she fully expected to reach out and touch a cooling corpse, yet also clung to the tiny chance that he _could_ still be alive, and as long as she didn’t know for sure one way or the other, she could entertain hope. But she was out of excuses now. If he was alive, he needed urgent help. So she had to be brave now, and face the moment of truth.


	38. Chapter 38

**_Present (Friday, continued)..._ **

Emma couldn't hold back her tears as she crouched before the mutilated form of her husband. He'd been stabbed in the chest and through the hand, and his right shoulder hung grotesquely out of place. Blood caked his face and pooled in livid swellings from a recent beating. Red droplets dripped sluggishly off the tip of his nose and splattered, barely visible, onto the rust-tinged burlap on his torso. A haphazard mess of surgical staples did little to contain bone-deep lacerations on either side of his ankle. And a line of slowly oozing punctures trailed their way up both inner thighs until disappearing beneath the sackcloth smock.

She decided to take it as a good sign that everything still seemed to be actively bleeding. Killian did not appear to be moving at all; at first, Emma could not even see any sign of breaths. But as she reached out to seek a carotid pulse, she noticed a slight and labored rise and fall of his chest. Her relief caused a catch in her throat. He was alive... for the moment.

Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion and weighed down by the responsibility of keeping him alive until help arrived, Emma fumbled for the phone concealed in her pocket. If ever there was a time for magical healing… Once again, she strained to feel the tingle of light where her power dwelt, a reflex she’d already indulged several times since the Vocivore’s defeat. As before: nothing.

Well, no use bemoaning something she couldn't change. Her free hand automatically came to rest on Killian's arm, above the ring and stake, over an unraveling bandage. She was both heartened and dismayed when Killian flinched away from her touch with a whine.

"Killian, hey," she soothed. "It's just me." She hit the button to call EMS, then put her phone on speaker. "You're gonna be okay."

She kept a careful watch on her husband while explaining to the dispatcher what was needed: essentially every ambulance and emergency vehicle in the United Realms. As sheriff, she knew they would take her seriously, as well as listen to any special request. So while she did her best to direct them to the scene, she also suggested that they contact David, who knew exactly the route they should take.

In the midst of rattling off her father’s contact info, while also absently holding pressure against as many of the puncture wounds as she could simultaneously reach, Emma felt Killian begin to stir. He shuddered as he tried to drag his eyes open.

“Try and hold still,” urged Emma.

“Swan,” he whispered, wincing.

His recognition of her brought tears to her eyes once more. Another good sign. “I'm here, babe. Just hold on; we’re going to get you all fixed up.”

He shook his head, breathing faster now, trying and failing to reach up and push her away with his stump. “You have to... go…” he groaned. “The monster…”

A flash of extreme pain crossed his face, and the words fizzled out, evaporating into frantic gasps for air.

Emma felt her own breath catch at his obvious distress. “Shhhhh, Killian, shhh... calm down. The monster’s dead; it can't hurt you anymore.” 

Every muscle in her husband's body stood taut as he fought for air.

“He's having trouble breathing,” she reported to the person on the other end of the line, as calmly as she could. She listened to the instructions but her attention was riveted on Killian. At long last, he managed to quell the panic and slow the gasping.

“D-dead?” he wheezed, sounding as if he couldn't even define the word.

“Yep.” She used her shirt sleeve to carefully blot some blood that was trickling into one of his eyes.

Killian finally managed to focus on Emma's face for the first time, and though he still had an alarmingly dazed look in his eyes, he immediately fixated on a small cut on her forehead.

“You're hurt.”

He looked as if he were about to raise his left arm despite the blade embedded in his chest. Emma held him down.

“Good to know your keen observational skills are still intact.” She rolled her eyes as he continued staring up at her in concern. “I'm fine. And you're ridiculous.”

He gritted his way through another wave of intense pain and seemed to forget that she was even there. It was then that she noticed how much he was shivering; whether it was from the practically nothing he was wearing, or from shock, she didn't know. How was she supposed to lay him flat and elevate his feet with his hand pinned to the frickin’ altar? More importantly, if he stopped breathing, how would she perform effective CPR in this position? 

She pushed aside the thought that, with the paramedics at least 30 minutes away, any efforts at resuscitation would likely be futile.

Emma glanced back at Jones, who was gingerly unwinding the costume bandage from his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to provide much assistance, whatever she decided to do.

She felt Killian squirming under her hands and turned her attention back. He groaned and then, as if reading her thoughts, he hissed,

"Please, love... get me free of this... bloody thing..."

His fingers twitched in feeble emphasis. Emma bit her lip, reluctant. "I don't know, Killian... that may not be such a good idea."

"Please," he said again, eyes screwed shut against the pain. "It'll have to happen... eventually. And I think... it may make it... easier to breathe."

"It will hurt a lot less after you've had some morphine," she pointed out. But if it really did help him to breathe better...

"Please, Emma," Killian grunted. "Just do it."

The dispatcher on the phone asked for an update, and Emma explained the situation while she set squeamishness aside and studied the impaling blade. She had no way of knowing how long it actually was, or how much of it was embedded in the wood. Approximately three inches of sharp steel were sandwiched between the dagger's handle and Killian's palm. The heel of his hand and the underside of his forearm glistened with blood all the way down to the elbow. Pulling the dagger free would be inadvisable if she wanted to keep that trickle of blood from becoming a stream. The dispatcher concurred, advising that they wait, if possible. But Emma didn't know how bad the stab wound to his chest was; he could even have a punctured lung on that side, so relieving the tension on the other side may well be the difference between life and death for him.

As she was agonizing over the decision, she sensed movement behind her, and when she glanced back, it was to see Jones staggering up the steps toward them. He was breathing hard, looked pale and sweaty, but didn't stop until he reached the top. Grimacing, he knelt, landing hard next to his doppelganger, whose eyes snapped open as he cringed away. Expecting an attack. Emma squeezed his wrist in reassurance.

"Ahoy there, mate," said Jones softly. He faked a scowl and added, "You know, I haven't forgotten to be miffed at the pair of you and this insane plot of yours."

Gratified by the hint of a pained smile on Killian's lips, Jones turned to address Emma. "Suppose I should offer my help anyway."

Emma eyed him critically. The Ace bandage was now wrapped haphazardly around his injured shoulder, loosely covering the patch of blood spreading on the sackcloth over the bullet wound. She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you're up to it?"

Jones only gave a small, unconvincing twitch of his lips. Emma took her hands away from her husband's injuries long enough to grip the ends of the Ace bandage, which were merely tucked under one another. She gave a sharp tug to tighten it and tied a more secure knot, hissing,

“What the hell happened back there?”

“Not a clue.” Jones closed his eyes in a brief concession to the momentary increase in pain, then nodded his thanks. 

The dispatcher on the phone crackled an update in ETA: 20 minutes, give or take. A long time, in which anything could happen. Most of which would be bad.

Emma gave a sigh of resignation. Then she squared her shoulders.

"Think you can help stabilize his hand?" she murmured, and Jones' gaze flicked to the afflicted limb.

"Yeah, of course."

Emma shuffled around to the other side of her husband's legs, closer to the impaling dagger. With a stifled grunt, Jones made room for her. Killian watched, motionless apart from his short, gasping breaths. Forcing herself to turn away from the pain in his eyes, Emma reached for the dagger's handle. Behind her, the detective gently wrapped his hand around Killian's wrist.

In response to the hissed intake of air to her right, Emma caressed Killian's cheek. "You sure?"

Her husband's eyes betrayed just as much fear and reluctance as anguish, but he managed a shaky nod. Emma tightened her grip on the dagger. "On three, then. One..." She heard Killian gasp a preparatory breath, saw him squeeze his eyes shut. "Two..."

On impulse, ignoring the blood and sweat staining his face, Emma initiated a furious kiss, at the same time yanking with all her strength on the trapped blade. The unexpected touch of intimacy worked as a distraction for approximately half a second, as a dazed Killian attempted to reciprocate. But then he was pulling away, howling his agony against her cheek. Emma cursed and braced her free hand against the altar as leverage; long seconds later, the dagger popped free of the wood, inevitably jerking inside Killian's hand despite efforts to keep it still. Though a smear of crimson revealed where a short length of steel had slid free, enough remained within his flesh to hopefully stem the worst of the bleeding.

"It's done; it's out," Emma breathed, reaching for his head and cradling him against her shoulder. She nodded at Jones and, moving in slow tandem, they lowered the impaled limb to rest awkwardly on the floor beside him, the dagger’s handle mere inches from his hip. And Killian's muffled groans were sweet music, proving his continued existence, his ability to draw enough breath to express his pain.

Even from her strange angle, even through the stained sackcloth, Emma could see the wrong position of his shoulder joint. She cringed and stroked the back of Killian's head. Then she gently pulled away, asking,

"Any better?"

Killian rested his head back against the altar and squinted up at her, nodding once but not wasting the energy to speak.

"Not touching that shoulder. Sorry." She spared a glance at Jones, who had sat back and was now massaging his chest despite the length of metal still burrowed into his arm. He grimaced agreement with her decision; even if either of them had the expertise to pop the joint back into place, it had been long enough for swelling and tightening of the tendons and ligaments to make an attempt not worth it.

"Do you want to lie down?"

At first, it looked as if Killian were considering the suggestion. Theoretically, lying him flat could be advisable for multiple reasons, and might make it easier for him to relax, but Emma wanted to leave the choice up to him. In the end, whether he thought he would find it harder to breathe, wanted to avoid the pain of changing positions, or feared the possibility that once he lay down, he may never get up again, Killian answered with a feeble shake of his head.

Emma peeled her jacket off and rolled it into a tight bundle, which she carefully slid behind Killian's head as a makeshift pillow. Her proximity allowed her a better view of the bulky new collar and its set of screws which, up until now, she'd been hoping weren't actually drilled into his neck. That explained at least some of that morning’s screams. Emma scowled, feeling sick; she'd granted that villain far too easy of a death. 

Killian didn't look any more comfortable, but grimaced his gratitude at her before suddenly catching sight of the slumped monster corpse in the distance. He seemed to grow somehow even more pale, warily watching the Vocivore for any sign of movement.

“It's dead?”

Emma rested a reassuring hand on his shin, inadvertently leaving a bloody handprint on a relatively unscathed portion of skin. Killian's eyes were locked on his tormentor, as if his vigilance were the only thing keeping it subdued.

“Shot it myself,” she growled. “So unless the damn thing can regenerate its ugly, pervert brain, we’re finally done with it.” 

As she said this, she realized it may not have been the most comforting thing for Killian to hear: they still had a lot to learn about the creature, and the possibility, however slight, of the Vocivore coming back to life gave her a momentary chill. She could only imagine how it made Killian feel. 

“Listen,” she said, “Jones and I both have our weapons and will keep an eye on it. But I don't think we need to worry about it.”

“And those slaves over there?” added Jones, his voice only slightly stronger than Killian's had been. “They're lost. Directionless. The first sign of renewed purpose, we’ll know to be on the alert.”

Emma stole a glance in the direction the detective was looking and saw the slaves, some of whom had been holding her captive just moments before, hunched on their knees, faces in hands. One or two lay stretched out flat, silent and still.

"He's right. Leave the guard duty to us; you just focus on hanging in there until the medics come."

Emma did not like the bleak hopelessness with which he reacted to her statement; she knew he was doubting his odds of surviving that long. But he rested his head back and soon had his eyes closed, either deciding to put his trust in her words, or simply too weary to do otherwise. 

She tried to remain quiet as she reached across his body for the loose end of the bandage around his left wrist. It appeared to be the same one supplied by Storybrooke General; if its sole purpose was still to cover the wrist ring, it would be of better use staunching some of the oozing injuries on his legs.

“Killian?” she asked, some time later. “How far is Z's and would you be able to tell me how to get there?” 

Her husband didn't respond. 

“Babe?” A gentle finger on his cheek elicited no response, but he did pull away slightly when she got too near an inflamed abrasion by his eye. His breaths were shallow and quick but regular, and he seemed somehow balanced enough even without much supporting him upright. She was torn between staying to monitor his condition and heading off to see what she could find in the way of first aid supplies. 

Watching through half-lidded eyes, Jones reluctantly sat up straighter, rousing himself from a pain-driven daze to offer, 

“I'll keep an eye on him, Emma. Go do what you need to do.”

The detective was hardly in a fit state to offer that kind of service; Emma wouldn't have been surprised to watch him be the next one to pass out. But, grunting, Jones got to his knees and made his way to Emma’s side, dutifully nudging her hand away so he could take over the task of applying pressure. With a stubbornness so much like her own Killian, he even went so far as to use the scarred remnants of his left wrist to cover an additional wound, yielding nothing to the anguish that surely wracked his shoulder with the effort. Emma flashed him look of exasperation before clambering to her feet.

“Five minutes,” she promised, then jogged her way out into the desolate afternoon light.

*****

His Master loomed overhead. Large and menacing. A claw was embedded in his shoulder, another in his hand, severing tendons, removing sensation and function from each remaining finger. Killian whimpered, shifting under questing tentacles pressed hard into burning thighs. Emma, the rescue... all a wonderful, horrible hallucination. How much longer would his suffering drag on? 

Tentacles dug deeper, and Killian thrashed with all of his remaining strength. He knew his Master demanded obedience, but he couldn't do it. Not again.

A startlingly good impression of his own voice floated down from above. "Hey, easy! Easy there, mate; it's only me."

Nearly hyperventilating now despite unprecedented agony in his chest, Killian continued to struggle; opening his eyes seemed a monumental task and he would only see that hideous face staring down at him anyway. He had no idea what his Master was up to, or how the creature had managed to mimic his voice, but it hardly mattered.

"Killian, mate; I promise I'm not trying to hurt you. I swear. In truth, I intend to wait until you're fully recovered. And then... well, after that, all bets are off. You bloody wanker."

Those words sounded nothing like any his Master had ever said before. Perhaps he was hallucinating this as well? Killian groaned quietly, then peeled his eyes open.

Detective Jones sat beside Killian's knee, holding pressure on some of the punctures to his inner thigh. The man looked utterly spent, had a blood soaked bandage wrapped carelessly around a shoulder, and wore a grim expression, but his eyes were soft. Upon locking gazes with Killian, the detective flashed a wan smile.

"That's it. See? Nothing to fear now."

Killian remained unconvinced that it wasn't a dream. He scanned the desecrated church, feeling dazed and slightly drunk; his eyes would not follow a steady path and he couldn't make sense of everything he was seeing. He winced and tried to relieve some of the strain on his shoulder, to no avail.

"If you're looking for Emma, she's just stepped out for a bit," Jones told him. "In search of bandages and a blanket."

"Emma..." croaked Killian.

"She'll be back soon," soothed the detective, hiding a wince himself as he shifted his weight. "And not much longer until other help arrives as well."

Killian brought his focus back on the face identical to his own, blinking heavy eyelids and fighting massive disorientation. "How...?"

Jones gave a wry grin. "Your Swan confessed. I know everything now. You great bloody git. You know your in-laws are going to murder you as well?"

"Can't murder... a corpse... mate..."

"No, no... you're not getting out of it that easily." Jones checked that his hand was still covering the wound before continuing. "You're obligated to stay alive; otherwise, who will we exact our vengeance upon?"

Killian's eyes fluttered closed against his will. "The Crocodile... it was his gadget... made this possible."

Jones laughed once. "Okay, I'm not averse to that idea... but as I understand it, he’s only one third of the responsible party."

Killian could not keep up the conversation. He was in too much anguish and found his concentration slipping. Jones seemed to sense this and fell silent, but after a moment of quiet, he murmured,

"I understand, mate. I do. And I can't say I would have done anything differently, given the opportunity you had."

Killian made an attempt at a grateful smile. But a sudden stab of pain took his breath away, stifling any chance at a reply. Through the gasping breaths that followed, he thought he heard the scrape of the off-kilter door being dragged open, but it could have been his imagination, as well.

It wasn't. Killian heard footsteps, urgent and self-assured, scuffling along the well-worn paving stones of the sanctuary in a manner very distinct from the ominous clicking he had grown accustomed to fearing. From an impossibly great distance, the garbled voice of his beloved called out,

"How's he doing?"

"Still with us," reported Jones, similarly remote. "I was just telling him how much trouble the pair of you are in."

Killian shuddered at the arrival of another being; it was so deeply ingrained that even the fuzzy outline of Emma's calmly worried face could not overcome the instinct. Her gentle touch on his knee sent a shock of pain and fear sizzling down to his toes. He hissed, then stammered an apology. Emma ignored the reaction. She had in her grip a ragged brown blanket, which she unfurled and gently spread over his lower body.

"Almost," she promised in a whisper. Unrolling other scraps of fabric intended as temporary bandages, she added, "I'm pretty sure I heard sirens out there. This is almost over."

Even in his near-stupor, Killian somehow made sense of the words. He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and began to silently weep.


	39. Chapter 39

**_Present (Friday, continued)..._ **

The first siren was the most beautiful sound Jones had heard in a very long time. His sense of time had been growing increasingly fuzzy, but his estimate would have leaned toward a wait of at least an hour. Likely a gross exaggeration, but with Killian in such dire straits, and the attention-seeking behavior of his own dizzying pain, every moment had stretched to an interminable age.

Thankfully, Emma had resumed the duty of applying pressure to her husband's wounds, and Jones could take advantage of the respite to recline back against the bloodied altar. He didn’t know for sure, but he had a suspicion that fragments of the stun projectile remained in his throbbing shoulder. Emma had graciously wrapped a second bandage around the first, which seemed to be containing the bleeding for the most part, but didn't do much for the agony. All adrenaline now long gone, Jones could feel each heartbeat through the wound, and an overwhelming exhaustion pressed down upon him. More than once, he had caught himself beginning to topple sideways, close to passing out. Dizziness bordered on nausea. He could only imagine how Killian must be feeling. As far as Jones could tell, his counterpart drifted in and out of consciousness, frequently coming back with sobs of terror as he relived tortures endured, and Emma could not always soothe him easily.

Now, as the first scream of a siren echoed up to the rafters, Jones forced himself alert and struggled closer to Killian's side, knowing that Emma would want to direct the help where it was needed most. She met his gaze gratefully, squeezed Killian's knee with a murmured word of encouragement, then rose. As she jogged toward the front door, Jones listened to the labored breathing beside him and prayed that the medics weren't too late.

"In here," called Emma, one foot still inside the church. Evidently she was reluctant to leave her husband for too long. "Hurry!"

Killian whimpered and Jones lay a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Still with us, mate?"

Uniformed paramedics trooped inside, following Emma's urging, and Killian shivered, seemingly only half-aware of his surroundings. The detective managed one more reassuring squeeze before shuffling aside. He watched with hooded eyes the efficient dance of emergency medical assessment, waving off attention for his own injuries in favor of faster intervention for Killian.

The medics were quick to administer supplemental oxygen as they measured vitals and made a preliminary examination of his wounds. Emma managed level-headed answers to their questions, keeping out of their way but determined to stay by Killian's side. He seemed confused and afraid, struggling against every touch despite Emma's pleas for him to remain calm. The medic at his left side was already on her third cannula as she tried to hit a moving target. Pouches of blood and saline awaited only a reliable access to Killian's compromised circulatory system.

Emma's phone buzzed. After reading the message and typing a quick reply, she reported to no one in particular,

"Second ambulance is close. My dad’s following in his truck. He's gonna direct them in here."

One of Killian's medics seemed to be getting ready to activate a power drill into his upper arm. Jones wondered if he might be starting to hallucinate, but in response to Emma's look of confusion, the medic explained how the long bones can be just as effective at transporting drugs and fluids as peripheral veins are. _"It's not overly painful,"_ yeah right. Already woozy, Jones couldn't watch, and even Emma had to look away as the battery-powered device buzzed a stylet through skin and muscle and into the humerus. Perhaps the woman was correct; Killian didn't seem excessively bothered. He'd grown quiet and mostly still, focused on the effort of breathing. Under the mask, he almost looked like a fish out of water, gulping at air too thin to metabolize. The impression was only strengthened by the bluish-gray tinge to his skin.

This was evidently cause for concern. The activity around him doubled in calm intensity, and even Emma backpedaled to allow them more space to work. Jones was just gathering the fortitude to stretch out a comforting hand when the church door scraped open again. He had missed hearing the new ambulance come wailing up, but he could see a doubling of the whirling flashes outside.

David still had his arm in a sling, but that didn't stop him from being the first one inside.

"Emma!"

Fixated on her husband's struggles to breathe, Emma didn't seem to even hear her father's call. David urgently beckoned the new arrivals inside and started up the aisle himself. He did an impressive double take at the monstrous corpse on the floor, watching it warily as he skirted an unnecessary circle around it, then hurried to the foot of the stairs. He faced a moment of indecision when catching a glimpse of his son-in-law in the midst of the crowd of medical professionals, eventually deciding to creep up in between Emma and Jones in order to provide his daughter with moral support. Kneeling behind Emma and pulling her close against his chest, he cast a worried glance at Jones.

"Hey, partner. You okay?" he murmured, making sure to keep his voice at a level that would not disrupt critical communications elsewhere.

"Glad you could j-join us, mate," Jones gritted out, shivering painfully. The sackcloth tunic he wore certainly did not provide much warmth. He was beginning to regret having insisted Emma lay all of the blankets she'd found over Killian, especially considering that most of them were now strewn carelessly in a heap after the medics had desired better access to their patient.

David read his thoughts and reached gingerly around Emma, grasping at one of the discarded blankets nearby. Absently, Emma helped him to drag it back out of the way. The prince tore his eyes away from the frantic scene in front of him, gave Emma a comforting squeeze, then pulled away. As he spread the blanket over his quaking partner, David hissed,

"What the hell happened? What were you two even doing here?"

"Saving the world, naturally," grimaced Jones. The second band of EMTs had finally arrived, and they were trotting toward the altar, though to Jones it appeared as if they were moving in slow motion. David finished tucking the corner behind his good shoulder, leaving the fabric loose beneath the saturated bandage on the other side.

One uniformed man started to set up shop at Jones' right just as Emma turned and reached for David, her strong facade crumbling. David was forced to adjust his position in order to accommodate his wounded shoulder blade. As the prince gathered his weeping daughter in his arms, Jones could hear him whispering words of hope. _He's going to be ok. They'll get him home; Whale will fix him up. People could survive a collapsed lung. And they were talking about Killian, here._

Jones heard all of this despite the other portion of his attention devoted to responding to the questions being put to him by the two EMTs assessing him. Turning his face away from the blood pressure cuff that was currently magnifying the throb in his coat-hanger-pierced forearm, Jones caught sight of what had so deeply upset Emma. Not only were the medics inserting some sort of drain in Killian's chest below the still-protruding dagger, but they were also preparing to intubate and take over his respirations with mechanical ventilation. It all looked serious and scary, but was obviously for the best, if his own efforts were ineffective.

True professionals, Jones’ medics kept their focus solely on him despite the commotion nearby. Their attempts to start an IV were barely distinguishable from the squeezing, pulsing anguish lower down his punctured forearm; Jones was just grateful they hadn't yet pulled out their bone drill to use on him. As he looked past the gurney that was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Jones spotted the massive corpse of the Master slumped where they'd left it. And surrounding it…

“Bloody hell,” muttered the detective. Still in the dark about the situation and extremely on edge, David's head snapped up and he looked around wildly, fumbling for his gun. 

"What is it? What's the matter?"

"They're over there." Jones gave a stiff nod to indicate the direction in which he was looking. 

The slaves were gathering around their Master. Forming a mournful and eerie circle tribute. Or maybe it was panicked directionlessness. Even those too weak, stunned, or injured to walk were compelled to slither along the ground, inch by agonizing inch, all to be closer to the commanding presence they could no longer feel or hear. If anything were to remind the detective of a zombie horror film, the sight before him now would have been a top contender. Even more were staggering their way into the bustling church, clogging up the doorway through which additional paramedics were attempting to enter.

"Wow," grunted David, still slightly alarmed. "That's disturbing." He glanced warily back at Jones. "You're not... feeling the urge to join them, are you?"

The detective's attempt at a laugh came out more like a groan. "Not yet, mate; thank the gods. I'll let you know if I do."

"Well," said David thoughtfully, "at least it will make it easier to round them all up."

A sudden frenzy of activity distracted both men from the sight. Emma scrambled to her feet as Killian's backboard was hauled up in preparation for transport to the ambulance. She shot the briefest of glances at her father, but was already making as if to follow even before he had a chance to say,

"You go. I'll handle things here."

Just as the front doors had ground to a close behind Killian's gurney, one of Jones’ medics rose to her feet. She found a place on the altar’s facade on which to hang his bag of saline, saying, 

“Okay, Mr. Jones. I know you're probably anxious to get to the hospital where you'll be more comfortable, but since you're stable for now, we are obligated to triage the rest of the scene before deciding who gets priority.”

“Understood,” Jones assured her. “I can wait.”

As she collected her remaining equipment, her partner turned to David. 

“Would you mind keeping an eye on him? I'll tell you what to watch out for.”

David hesitated, looking torn. “I…” He turned stricken eyes upon Jones. “Killian, I didn't want to give Emma one more thing to worry about, but in her message she said that Hope was... safe? I didn’t see her… and who’s taking care of her right now?”

The detective gave him the best impression of a reassuring grin that he could manage under the circumstances.

“She isn’t here, mate,” replied Jones with a definite slur to his words. He could feel some kind of narcotic beginning to take effect, blurring pain and mental acuity alike. “But she is safe and being looked after; I give you my word.”

David’s teary smile was laced with confusion. “She… but then where…?”

With a deep sigh, the detective closed his eyes and rested his head back against the hard surface behind him. “I don’t believe that’s my story to tell, David. Sorry.” 

He heard the medic begin to relay quiet instructions to the prince and slitted one bleary eye open to interrupt.

“If you’d rather assist with the injured slaves, I should be okay here. This thing has an alarm, doesn’t it?” Jones indicated the portable EKG currently monitoring his heart rate. David winked at him, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled in next to Jones. 

“Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I left you here all alone?” He shifted his weight a bit, trying to get comfortable. “Besides, I wouldn’t be much help anyway with one arm out of commission. Bossing the medics around, I guess, but I get the feeling they don’t need my input.”

Jones gave him the barest hint of a smile before closing heavy eyelids again. “Thank you.”

For the second time in three days, Detective Jones was reminded of that lonely Seattle night, when the poison in his heart had nearly killed him. He even had the aching soreness in his chest as an additional parallel. 

How much nicer it was to have a caring friend by his side while he waited!


	40. Chapter 40

**_Present (Friday, continued)…_ **

How many times now?

In this exact chair, this oppressive waiting lounge with its dusty fake plants and decades-old magazines, a nearly empty water cooler in the corner, a vending machine down the hall that always jammed when you tried to get a pack of Cheez-Its. How many lifetimes had Emma spent here, always anxiously awaiting news on her gravely injured husband, fearing the worst as the minutes and hours ticked by, as people came and went and doctors brought tidings of good or ill?

Had her turn finally come to be on the receiving end of the ‘We Did All We Could’ speech?

Nearly midnight. It had been at least eight hours already. The hospital was thrumming, jam-packed with the influx of newly liberated slaves, all of whom were desperately ill, shell-shocked by the loss of that guiding voice in their minds, and the majority seriously wounded to boot. The ambulances kept coming; most were on their 7th or 8th trip by now despite having crammed as many casualties in each vehicle as was safe. Emma had not been involved in the discussion of whether some could be transported elsewhere to relieve the burden on the relatively small Storybrooke General, but it was by far the closest facility and more advanced than anything else the United Realms had to offer.

Because she’d been on the first ambulance to arrive, Emma had not endured much of a wait to have her minor forehead wound dressed, once Killian had been whisked back for emergency surgery. That would have been a different story now; even with every available physician, nurse, and allied health provider called in on disaster protocol, the ED was packed and wait times for anything less than a life-threatening condition were astronomical.

Emma’s hand clenched around the paper-flavored cone of water she held as she relived the day’s events. Everything had been such a close call. If anything had gone even slightly differently, she and all the others may not have been in this place at all, never mind Killian.

Try as she might, she could not rid herself of the image of the Vocivore as she’d seen it upon entering that abysmal cathedral. How it had loomed over a broken Killian, how grotesquely ominous her first impression of it had been.

What it had been doing to him, in plain view of her and all the other slaves in the building.

Another tear slipped down her cheek, following the salty trail blazed by countless predecessors. The last gulp of water overflowed out over her hand and onto her lap, the cone squeezed into a bitter crumple, and Emma didn’t give a damn about the wetness on her knees because it was such a minor inconvenience to all that her husband had suffered through in the month gone by. And she was at least 50% culpable, by her reckoning.

“Hey. Save some of that for the fishes,” came a gentle voice from the doorway to her left, and Emma scrubbed at her face before rising to her feet.

“Dad.” Her voice was tremulous, low and husky with emotion, and the prince was quickly at her side and wrapping her in a one-armed hug.

“You still here?” he murmured into her hair.

With a shuddering breath, Emma nodded. “Haven’t heard anything for… at least four hours,” she calculated. “They had to pause the surgery in the middle ‘cuz his blood pressure and temperature both got too low. They plan to resume as soon as he’s stable enough.”

_If he ever reaches that point,_ was the unspoken addition.

David gave her one more squeeze before stepping back. He looked haggard, almost on the verge of collapse, so Emma took a seat in the hopes that he would follow suit. Letting out a low groan, he sank into the chair beside her, settling uncomfortably sideways to avoid touching his injured shoulder blade to the seat back. Rubbing his eyes, he gave a report of his own.

“Well, we just brought in the last of them, near as we could tell. There may still be some out in the woods, but we cleared all the buildings at least. Figure we’ll track down the rest when it gets light.”

“Thanks for taking over back there.”

“Of course.”

He was always so good to her; he and Snow both. Always willing to do whatever she asked, regardless of their own busy schedules. Emma could count on them both for anything at any time. Which made this apology so hard, but also so important. And maybe she should have waited for her mother to be there as well, or for a time when Killian could add his own, but Emma didn’t feel right putting it off any longer.

“Dad, I… I’m so sorry we lied to you.”

David looked as if he were steeling himself, and Emma cringed.

“About Hope?” he asked slowly, expression unreadable. She nodded and watched him massage his temples one-handed.

“How much did Detective Jones tell you?”

“Not much,” he mumbled. “He was in a lot of pain; mostly we just waited quietly.”

That was probably for the best, decided Emma. Jones’ own feelings of betrayal may have colored his retelling of the scheme; better for it to come from one of the bastards who had created it and pulled it off. Still, it might have been easier if David had had a little bit of preparation first…

Emma was still searching for the best place to start when David sniffed, cleared his throat, and gruffly asked,

“Does that mean… did you find… something…?”

A chill skittered up her spine. Her father was reaching for her hand, tears brimming in his eyes, and she realized she had unintentionally led him to draw a horrifically incorrect conclusion.

“Shit, Dad, I… no. Hope is fine, really and truly. That wasn’t the lie. She’s okay.”

As relief warred with confusion on David’s tired face, Emma berated herself for making things so much worse. She squeezed her father’s hand, more to get his attention and assure him that he was awake than anything else.

“Hope’s… okay?” he repeated.

“Yeah. With Belle. I swear to you; she’s fine. I’ll need to go get her, once we know Killian’s gonna…”

Emma trailed off, realizing again that there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t be bringing Hope home only to attend her papa’s funeral.

“Belle?” David pulled back his hand in order to clear the wetness from his cheeks.

“I wanted to tell you so badly!” whined Emma, her voice catching on the emotions constricting her throat. “It was _killing_ me to keep it from you. But it was… it…”

The magnitude of what they had all been through struck her yet again, and suddenly, she was crying too hard for coherent speech. She managed one more strangled, “I’m so sorry” before she found herself enfolded in David’s grasp, her face against his shoulder.

“Emma, shh, it’s okay. We can worry about the rest later; right now, all I care about is knowing that Hope is safe.” David laughed a sob of his own. “Those are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.”

Emma could not be sure how much he had worked out on his own; he must still have a million questions crowding his mind, and maybe once the relief wore off, the sting of betrayal would take over. Truthfully, Emma could not think that far ahead, and she was glad for the moment of grace right now. As she took what comfort she could from her father’s embrace, she barely felt the twinge of guilt over his patience. Now that the pressure was off to tell the whole story, her focus had returned squarely on one thing: Killian. And she could only pray that, against all odds, he surprised them all and lived through the night.

*****

Neither Emma nor David slept much in the padded chairs, as comfortable as they were for sitting. Worry for Killian was at the forefront of Emma’s thoughts, whether awake or dozing, so that any slight noise set her pulse racing in dread of bad news.

If David had managed to reach Snow aboard the Jolly Roger, Emma had missed that moment. His soft snores at her side--when he managed to drift off for a short while--were a small comfort when panic threatened to send her bolting into the depths of the hospital in search of information. She kept reminding herself of that old saying that ‘no news is good news.’ It did seem to apply in this case, for if there were any change in Killian’s condition, especially a turn for the worse, they surely would come and speak with her. If only to give her an opportunity to say goodbye, should they deem it necessary. So when someone burst into the lounge shortly after 6, Emma nearly toppled a lamp in her haste to leap to her feet.

But it wasn’t Whale, nor was it a solemn-faced nurse.

“The monster is dead?” demanded Regina, immaculately groomed as always despite the early hour. “Why am I only now hearing about this?”

“Sorry,” grumbled Emma, rubbing at her burning eyes. “There was a lot going on yesterday.”

“I had to find out about it from Leroy, of all people. Do you know how that makes me look? A queen so out of touch with important developments that she has to get her updates from the town gossip?”

“How did he find out?” Emma asked. She’d been so busy and then distracted that she hadn’t composed a single message after contacting her father.

“Ambulance driver?” suggested David.

Regina stood glaring the wallpaper off the wall behind Emma’s head. “Care to fill me in, Sheriff?”

Emma was so tired. She lacked the mental energy to convince Regina to wait. And maybe it would have been better to share the story individually with David first, so he could react honestly without the queen watching, but tough. Emma was also too exhausted to consider trivialities like that.

She shared the whole story. And then when it was over, she sat staring at the ‘Employees only’ door, unable to meet the eyes of either person watching her as they absorbed the month of falsehoods in stony silence. Finally, Regina spoke up.

“All those search parties… you’re telling me they were for nothing?”

Emma wilted slightly. “Not… _nothing,_ no… they were to help the monster believe in Killian’s motive. And… well… it worked.”

Regina scoffed, then turned to David. “Were you in on this?”

“No. I wasn’t.”

Emma’s heart twisted just a little bit more at the careful control in his tone.

“And Detective Jones? You mentioned that he helped you yesterday?”

“He helped me get in, yeah. Took a stun projectile to the shoulder at close range but was conscious last I saw him.”

“I’m sure he’s still here,” added David. “I saw him off in the ambulance.”

After a beat of silence, Regina began,

“This is serious business, you know; the sheriff misleading the whole town like this--”

At that moment, Dr. Whale came marching through the door, and Emma truly could not care less about what Regina was saying. The blood drained from her face, seeming to concentrate in her ears as she got slowly to her feet.

“He was touch and go for most of the night,” reported the physician without a word of greeting to anyone, which Emma very much appreciated. “He’s still not out of the woods, to be frank. I’d like to see several numbers come up before we attempt surgery again. But… there has been a slight improvement since we were forced to halt the procedure last night.”

Dizzy and overcome with equal parts relief and fear, Emma nodded and collapsed back into her seat. She had a hundred questions but could not think of a single one.

“Right now, I’d say his odds are about 50/50, and even if he does pull through, he’s got a long and difficult recovery ahead of him. But we’ll do our best for him. 

“Now. I’m off to try to get some rest,” Whale told them while the bleak outlook sank in. “Day shift has their orders and will contact me if anything changes. I suggest you try and do the same: you won't be allowed back there to see him for at least the rest of the day. You may as well go home where you’ll be more comfortable.”

Emma just stared at him as if the very idea were offensive. Whale shrugged and moved toward the exit, and if anyone had felt the urge to thank him, they would have been drowned out by Regina, who was hot on his heels.

“Victor? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Detective Jones, would you?”

Their conversation faded down the hallway, and Emma sniffed. She’d retained a fairly good handle on her guilt where Jones was concerned. True, she felt terrible that he’d been injured in the rescue mission, but at least he’d gone in fully aware and of his own volition. Emma had enough other misdemeanors to regret. 

One victim of which sat silent beside her while she tried to shake off Whale’s pessimism. It was the physician’s responsibility to be brutally honest, to prepare everyone for the possible worst-case scenario. Maybe the odds were 50/50 from a purely medical standpoint, but Emma knew Killian. Surely, his stubborn resilience had to stack things more in his favor?

Cringing, Emma cast a sidelong glance at her father, who had not directly addressed her since finding out the extent of their deception. Again, and certainly not for the last time, she squeaked,

“I’m so sorry.”

Not yet meeting her eyes, David slowly asked,

“This whole plan… All of this… you and Killian did it entirely of your own free will?”

“We’re insane. I know.” 

“Hope was never in any danger.”

“Right…”

“But you went through with it anyway. _Killian…_ ”

He trailed off into silence and Emma braced herself for the inevitable rebuke. And for a moment, it appeared as if David would oblige. But then he shook his head, quiet resolve on his features.

“Nope. Not gonna do it; not yet.”

“W… what do you…”

He turned to her then, and though she could make out the traces of hurt and anger in his eyes, she also saw love and understanding.

“Later. I promised.” He reached out for her hand, wearing a tearful smile. “Today, you need a supportive dad way more than a stern lecture filled with fatherly wisdom. Right?”

As Emma returned the expression with a similarly watery one of gratitude, David added,

“But we’re going to have to repeat everything when your mother gets back.”

Suddenly too exhausted for words, Emma leaned against his shoulder and murmured,

“You said it best just a minute ago. Later.”

*****

Detective Jones hurt everywhere, but strangely enough, what was bothering him the most at present was the donor blood being pumped into him as he lay waiting for something to happen. The blood had been stored frozen, and while it had thawed enough for transfusion, it remained chilled well below body temperature, causing his arm to ache fiercely and highlighting the swollen tunnel from which several inches of coat hanger had previously been removed. A hazy sort of fog seemed to be collecting around the periphery of his room, and though the clock indicated 7:15, he would not be able to hazard a guess whether that was AM or PM.

The whole encounter with the monster had warped into what felt like an abstract nightmare; were it not for the physical proof on his body, he very well could have mistaken his current predicament to be a continuation of the sword battle’s aftermath. He had vague memories of waiting with David inside the church, bleeding and in pain, then treacherous transport by ambulance over unpaved, bumpy roads for the majority of the trip to Storybrooke General. After that, massive doses of narcotics blocked out most of his time spent in the emergency department, although he did remember more pain as the staff worked to assess and stabilize his condition.

Jones closed his eyes, determined to ignore his discomfort in favor of drifting into one of the short naps that were all he'd managed to do since arriving in his room. Inevitably, a nurse would come in to check for transfusion reaction, or a loud cart would rumble by, or he'd be awakened by a jolt of pain or for no reason at all. Given his total exhaustion, it was all very irritating indeed.

Right on cue, the moment he felt himself beginning to relax, brisk footsteps approached his door, then continued inside with hardly a pause. Probably a nurse, then. With a sigh, Jones dragged reluctant eyelids open. Maybe he would inquire about some method of warming the blood so he could get some real rest for once…

It was Regina. The concern on her face gave way to obvious relief when she saw that he was awake, but she covered it up with a dramatic scowl.

"Those idiots!" she ranted, coming to a stop at his side. Jones blinked up at her, already lost. She continued regardless. "What kind of utter imbecile gives himself up to a scream-eating monster on the off-chance it will reveal a weakness to him? And all on the advice of none other than the Dark One, who just so happens to be that idiot's mortal enemy?"

"You've spoken to Emma, I take it." Jones' voice sounded like the baleful call of a territorial raven, gravelly and hoarse. Regina gave him a look, spending half a second to glance around for a glass of water for him, which was nowhere to be seen.

"I might expect something like this from that damn pirate--no offense--but Emma? No one will ever trust another word coming out of the mouths of either one of them!" She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion. "You didn't know anything about their asinine plan, did you?"

"Not until... whatever day that was." Jones waved his hand vaguely to indicate his complete loss of orientation, then winced as pain shot up his forearm and out through his chest.

"You're no less of an moron for going in the way you did," scolded the queen, though her tone now had much less bite to it. "You should have brought backup."

Jones lacked the energy to explain his reasoning just then. He settled for a gruff,

"Bad idea."

Regina just rolled her eyes, annoyed. "And yours was such a good one, I see."

Rather than arguing the point--an exercise he'd surely lose, even on a good day--Jones rested his head back and closed his eyes. "How is Killian?"

"Not good," she replied bluntly as she pulled a chair near his bedside. "They're having trouble getting him stable enough for the surgery needed to even _start_ fixing him. And Whale said that the neurological deterioration compared to how it was even three days ago is very troubling. You know they still haven't been able to keep one single former slave alive, right?"

"Suppose I should begin planning my funeral then, too," murmured Jones, half asleep. He wasn't too concerned; they'd performed an MRI at some point before sticking him in this bed, and while the official results had yet to come back, Dr. Whale had not seemed troubled by his reading of the images. If there were changes, they would be extremely minor considering how short a time he'd been in the Vocivore's presence.

“ _You_ are going to be fine,” commanded Regina, leaving no room for argument. Hurriedly, she moved on. “So what exactly happened out there? The monster is dead, for sure?”

“You're asking the wrong person,” answered the detective, wishing again for a drink of water to soothe his parched throat. “One moment I was under the creature’s thrall; the next, I was flat on the floor and feeling like I'd been shot in the heart instead of merely the shoulder.”

“Emma mentioned seeing a green glow.”

“Did she?” Uneasily, Jones reached for his chest. 

“It sounds an awful lot like the effects of your poisoned heart.”

Jones stared at her as dread got a chokehold on his throat. Finally, he slowly admitted,

“That's what it felt like, too.” He took a breath, shuddered slightly at the necessity of admitting it out loud at last, and winced. “But I'm completely cured and have been for nearly three years. I've even got a new heart to ensure it.”

“Well…” Regina looked to be deep in contemplation. “I've been thinking about that. Rumplestiltskin gave you his heart and that's what’s been keeping you alive. Performing all of the duties of your old heart, unaffected by the poison. But... your old heart is still in there, kind of... wrapped around the new one. You don't feel any effects of the poison because the good heart is there, functioning for you. But I think the poison was still inside, and has been all along, only you were no longer cursed.”

Jones felt dizzy, and not just from his physical maladies. "Bloody hell. Are you sure about this, Regina?"

"Of course not; there's no way to be sure until magic is restored, and we're still working on that."

The nightmare had just gotten ten times worse. Jones imagined he could feel the poison coursing through each chamber of his inherited heart, growing stronger the closer Captain Smee sailed the Jolly Roger Kiddie Cruise to Storybrooke. And he could not stop tears from forming at the injustice of it all.

“What would have reactivated it, do you think?” Even he could hear the helpless exhaustion and sorrow in his tone; there was no way Regina would have missed it. She looked stricken for a second and rushed to reassure him.

“No, no; not _reactivated,_ Killian. _Transferred._ From you to the Vocivore.”

The wave of relief was so strong that for a full minute, Jones felt nothing else: no pain, no weariness or confusion, only sheer gratitude that his happy ending with Alice had not been so suddenly taken away. “Transferred?”

Regina reached for his hand and pulled it away from where it had been clutching the gown over his breast. “That's what makes sense to me.”

“But how?”

“Again, this is all conjecture at this point. Emma was certainly too distracted to give all of the details I would have liked. But from what I gathered... am I correct in believing that you went in trying to suppress any positive emotions that may have alerted the monster to your approach?”

Jones nodded.

“And I assume you accomplished that by recalling painful memories of your separation from Alice.”

When the detective did not correct her, Regina continued as if her conclusions were the most simple connection she had ever made. 

“Well, those memories and emotions are inextricably linked to the curse on your heart. They dwell, in part, within the poisoned shell still residing in your chest. So when the Vocivore started literally feeding on those emotions, it drew the poison into itself along with the energy. It could not get one without the other.”

Before Jones could express surprise or amazement at the queen’s revelation, the dryness in his throat caught up to him and he started to cough. This had the unfortunate effect of jolting the wound in his shoulder as well as aggravating the marked soreness in his chest, and he spent the next several heartbeats in excruciating anguish. Regina leapt to her feet, radiating frustration.

“Can't anybody get a cup of water in this place?” She made as if to go out into the hallway and throttle the next nurse she saw until they retrieved the requested water, but Jones reached out to stop her. He cleared his throat several times and finally managed to growl, 

“Not allowed. Slated for surgery soon.”

Regina somehow managed to look even more impatient than she already had. “What's taking them so damn long? Haven't you been here for something like 14 hours already?”

Jones gingerly massaged his aching chest. “I couldn't begin to tell you, love. Feels like a lot longer, yet also no time at all.” 

He swallowed, winced, and cleared his throat. Regina still looked peeved.

“Let me see what I can do to light a fire under Whale’s team.” She reached for his hand, gave a brief squeeze, and assured him, “Then I'll be back.”

As she made her way to the door, she tossed out over her shoulder, 

“Glad you're in one piece. For the most part.”


	41. Chapter 41

_**Present (Saturday)…** _

In the presence of his Master, Killian lay inert.

There was no escape. Not ever.

No immunity, not in the end. He had resisted as long as he could. But now, he no longer had any control over his body. He could do nothing but lie helpless, paralyzed and at the mercy of the creature endlessly circling. Tapping that eerie cadence around and around, stopping only to prod at him, squeeze and pinch and crush. His ankle. His hand. His ribs.

Killian could not even scream anymore. Sometimes he felt on the verge of knowing why. The tentacle snaking down his throat did not truly hurt, though on occasion it inspired such panic that he would rather be dead than endure its presence any longer. Then the moment would pass, he would lose concentration and forget the invader, and try to beg an instant’s peace, and wonder why even the smallest hint of his pathetic pleas would not come forth.

YOU CAN NEVER BE FREE OF ME. I SHALL HAVE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY.

_Yes, Master._

Had there truly been a time when that commanding voice held no sway? The mantra scripted, the despair half-pretend?

NO MATTER. SAY IT FOR ME AGAIN. FEED ME YOUR MISERY.

_No hope._

IT IS REAL THIS TIME.

_No hope._

THE BATTLE IS LOST.

_No hope._

NO HOPE. NO HOPE, TRIPOD. NO HOPE FOR ANY OF YOU. KILLIAN.

Killian?

*****

Emma burst into the waiting lounge, cursing, her heart pounding as if she'd just sprinted up to the top of the clock tower. Of _course_ they would page her as soon as she ran down to the cafeteria for five minutes; she should never have let her dad talk her into taking a snack break.

"Whale?" she called urgently even as she spotted the physician’s distinctive shock of bleached hair across the room. He had his feet up on a coffee table and looked even more haggard than before; apparently, the past 30 hours had been rough on him, as well. He did not get up when he heard his name, opting to merely wait until Emma had perched nervously on a chair nearby. Dr. Whale gave her a reserved smile before speaking. 

"He's out of surgery." 

For an instant, Emma thought she might black out from the relief. Whale rubbed at bloodshot eyes, continuing, 

"We did everything we could for him, for now. His lung has been repaired, his shoulder reduced, and temporary closures provided for his other injuries; they'll have to be addressed at a later date, when he's stronger. He's had probably a dozen units of blood and may require more over the coming days." 

Emma felt a hand on her shoulder and realized that her father must have cleared up quickly downstairs in order to be able to be with her, and then snuck in while her attention had been riveted on the physician’s words. 

Whale sighed and stretched his neck. 

“I'm not going to lie, Emma; he's not out of the woods yet. He'll need constant supervision in the Intensive Care Unit until we’re sure he won't crash on us at any second. The biggest complication that we're dealing with right now is the neurological condition which, I can't even remember if I told you, has gotten exponentially worse since Wednesday.” 

“The brain shriveling?” clarified David, and Whale nodded. 

“The best thing for _that_ would have been to keep him sedated while we work on a therapy, like we did for the others, but for some unknown reason, every sedative we’ve tried has only made everything worse. His blood pressure will fall, or he'll develop an arrhythmia or respiratory depression or something else equally as dangerous. It's totally bizarre, and none of the other slaves have reacted this way. Bottom line is, I don't think it's safe to keep throwing different sedatives at him and hoping one will stick. We’ll allow him to wake up and just try to keep him comfortable with painkillers.” 

Around a lump in her throat, Emma managed to ask, 

“But didn't you say the brain condition is slowed down when they're sedated?” 

“I did,” shrugged Whale. “But faster brain deterioration will kill him slower than a clot caused by low BP would.” 

Emma nodded slowly, the long list of threats to her husband's life squeezing at her heart until she could not speak. Behind her, David quietly asked, 

“What about something like total anesthesia? Would that slow the condition?” 

"That would be even more risky than sedation," explained Whale. "With general anesthesia, you always want to use the smallest dose for the shortest amount of time, otherwise all sorts of bad things can happen, from respiratory arrest to brain damage." 

A moment of heavy silence filled the room, uninterrupted by the background noises of the busy hospital. Then Emma squared her shoulders. 

"So when can I see him?" 

With great reluctance, Whale stood up, unfolding slowly like a man many years his senior. 

"Let's go," he groaned. "He's going to be disoriented at first; hopefully you can help with that." He glanced at David, then back at Emma as he added, 

"Only you, though. For the time being, at least." 

David caught Emma's hand in a quick squeeze. “Give him our best.” 

***** 

His Master had its clawed hand around his arm, squeezing without involving any of its nails. It hurt the stake driven through his wrist. But that was, after all, its privilege. 

_Harder, Master. Take what you will. I am yours._

“Killian.” 

Bloody hell. Swan was in the church. He could hear her. He could almost see her, if he tried hard enough to open his eyes and focus. Impossible! 

I SHALL HAVE HER TOO. 

_No!_

A piercing pinch. A whimper without sound. 

_Yes… Master…_

***** 

It could only be an extension of his Master’s recording experiment, but how it was supposed to succeed was utterly mystifying. Any little sound stalled before it even started, not just the screams he wanted to unleash. So how would his Master glean any sort of energy from him this way? 

THAT IS NOT YOUR CONCERN. 

Killian’s elbow twitched and he felt an immediate jolt of stiff pain in his shoulder. He could not say when he’d been torn loose from his imprisonment, what almost certainly should have been the structure against which he’d breathed his last and surrendered his soul. The figment Emma was back, or perhaps had never left, though their Master had yet to make good on its threats against her. It must wish to drain the last remaining drops of scream energy from him first, wringing him out like a filthy, useless rag, scraping him down to the rind and then beyond. 

She called to him. He could not acknowledge. 

I AM HERE, insisted his Master. He felt it. Its marks of possession carved into his flesh. Unyielding limbs pinning him, holding him still. 

Which of its appendages was slender enough to slip inside a nostril? Killian had no recollection of that particular trick. 

“Hold still--” 

DO NOT MOVE, TRIPOD. 

Something twitched deep down inside his chest, sparking a powerful urge to retch. The Master’s device between his teeth confirmed itself as not-tentacle by its texture and flaccid presence, no roiling, pulsating muscle beneath its rubbery exterior, and yet it began moving again, this time sliding up his throat and exiting in one long, slippery slither, its tip scraping irritated muscle as it went. 

Gagging hurt, but coughing was worse. 

“Breathe,” urged many voices, Emma’s and at least one other. Z, if she weren’t dead and could speak. Or maybe it was only after death that she would. 

FILL THOSE LUNGS WITH SCREAMS. 

***** 

When Dr. Whale had first led Emma inside, she would have sworn it was the wrong room. Her emaciated husband was simply unrecognizable, even compared to what she'd seen of him the day before. Discolored, withered, and limp, taped and wrapped, sickly pale skin free of dirt but painted with a sheen of sweat. After so many situations just like this, she probably should be at least somewhat accustomed to all of the gadgets necessary for life support, but they shocked her every time. Whale’s team had at least traded the I/O line for a more long-term central line, which she knew would cut down on the number of needle sticks necessary for blood sampling and the like. 

Emma sighed. He was going to hate this. He always did, but now the parallels to his time as the Vocivore’s slave--not in control of much of anything, feeling trapped and helpless--would make it that much worse. Not to mention the damage to his hand that would take away all autonomy. 

Well, she told herself, it was a miracle he was even around _to_ hate it. And besides, it would be different this time. Magic would return soon; it had to. And then, even if she couldn't heal everything completely, she might be able to shorten his length of stay in his least favorite place. 

No, she realized. She now knew of several places that would rank lower than this. 

"Killian?" she called again, tenderly stroking his bony arm. In the 15 minutes she had been with him, he had showed some brief flashes of near-awareness: slight limb movements, fluttering of his eyelids, minute grimaces eliciting pangs of sympathy within her. In response to her voice, his heart rate would pick up momentarily, though it was difficult to tell whether that was from glad recognition or startled anxiety. In between, however, he would settle back into a frightening stillness that only the monitors proved could not be death. 

A few minutes ago, a couple of nurses had removed the endotracheal tube from his throat after Whale had declared him stable enough to breathe on his own. The bout of choking that followed was painful to watch, but Killian still seemed mostly out of it as they attached an oxygen mask to his battered face. His eyes fluttered briefly open but did not focus before slipping closed. Since then, it was back to nothing again. 

Whale appeared beside her and leaned over Killian in order to have a listen to both lungs. 

“He'll come around in his own time,” he assured Emma. “This is not unusual after such extensive surgery.” 

***** 

Something had changed. 

The paving stone had warmed, softening into something almost comfortable, a concept so unfamiliar as to be suspicious. The persistent cooing from up above mingled with an utter cacophony of bewildering sounds, none of which belonged to any reality within the horribly familiar confines of the sanctuary. And the light touch on his arm, the gentle stroking along intact flesh… for the first time, it was not altogether unpleasant. Which would only confirm what he no longer feared: total, unreserved surrender. 

_Does it please you, my Master?_

The end of the deception and the fight. 

IT IS GOOD. 

He could feel it prodding at his chest with its cold, unyielding legs. He did not pull away. No horror stirred his heart, though he knew it wanted something of him. 

WAKE UP. 

More places were being petted, encircled, or invaded than his Master had limbs to account for; nothing made sense. And why was it insisting he wake up when he was already awake? Perhaps he could appease it with a groan. 

Killian coughed. His whole throat felt raw as if acid slime had eroded all the tissue away. 

_I may no longer have any screams to give._

His ankle spasmed. Stabbing, burning cramps spread up his wrist from an oddly immobile hand. But his Master seemed unfazed by the revelation and continued its touching. 

“Please--OPEN YOUR EYES--Killian. It’s time--YOU MUST WAKE--wake up now.” 

The babbling had returned, voices on top of voices, all begging to be heard amidst the rolling of whitecaps pitching the floor into sudden, violent motion, squashing him down as though he weighed a thousand pounds, and in an instant, Killian was retching like the greenest of new recruits on their first day at sea. 

If he’d thought coughing hurt, his stomach trying to eject what wasn’t there took that pain and magnified it a hundredfold. 

“...Pretty common, too, after anesthesia…” 

_Shut the hell up, Whale, and let a man die in agonized peace._

HE WON’T ASPIRATE WITH THE NG TUBE CLEARING HIS STOMACH. 

“Trust me." 

His Master’s suit had turned white. 

The bucking slowed, gravity returning to normal from his feet upwards. Killian’s eyes were watering in lights far too bright and colorless, lacking any hint of refracted hue. 

It wasn’t a white suit. A white _coat._

“Killian?” 

Tilting his neck even the slightest degree seemed to drive iron stakes all around its perimeter. Killian blinked away the tears into which his Master’s image had dissolved, leaving behind only smeared shapes and hazy colors as it bellowed a whisper, 

I REMAIN. 

His first in-focus sight had to be of bloody Whale, leaning over him in professional study. But the physician’s voice hadn’t been the only one to blend with the Vocivore’s menace. 

“Swan?” he mumbled, almost noiseless, and promptly gagged. What he’d taken for a tentacle tightened on his arm in trembling reassurance. 

“I’m here, Killian.” She moved into his field of vision and his weary eyes looked into her face, desperate for the calm that only she could provide. “You’re safe; you’re at the hospital. You made it." 

Though his vision remained blurred and unsteady, there was no mistaking the relief on her face, nor the steady stream of tears coursing down her cheeks as she tried to smile. 

Sudden, paralyzing panic overtook him; he could not remember… his Master, it was there, always there, but beyond its looming presence… only fragments. A life. Such a precious life… and a corpse... 

“Wh…” he tried, then, “H…” 

“Don’t try to talk just yet,” interjected the bothersome physician. “You had a tube down your throat to help you breathe, and there still a smaller one going down into your stomach to help with nausea and for feeding later.” 

The majority of Whale’s words got lost in the storm clouds of confusion and worry, and Killian chose to ignore the rest. But moving to keep Emma in view brought a wave of such intense pain that the room lights went out and a high-pitched, pressurized buzzing filled his ears. 

“For the love of God, Hook,” Dr. Whale was saying, muffled at first but slowly clearer as Killian’s senses returned. “Hold still; there’s about 101 places you could tear open and we just finished putting you back together.” 

Killian could only gulp unsatisfying breaths under the weight of the several cannonballs that seemed to be piled on his chest. In a much more patient tone, Emma pleaded, 

“Try and relax, Killian; everything is fine. Hope is fine. The monster is dead. There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.” 

Hope. It was Hope, the corpse. _Hope kidnapped, Hope tortured, Hope dead._ Emma was saying one thing, but he saw another. _Hope dead._ Maybe Emma didn’t know. So many terrifying scenes jumbled in his head. So much screaming and pain and despair. And Hope’s corpse, there among the flashes. The wounds were real. The Master was real. But _Hope dead_ was not? 

How would he ever be certain? 

Emma’s touch; that felt real. Whale and his lackeys, as they performed their checks and asked questions he could not possibly comprehend… less so, but then again, their knowledge struck him as far beyond anything he could ever conjure. 

Whence came the corpses? 

I HAVE CONSUMED THEIR SCREAMS. THEY ARE DEPLETED.

His Master once again circled his bed. And Killian closed his eyes. Resigned to the torture. 

***** 

Emma watched her husband slip back into a troubled slumber and scrubbed at her face. The brief moment of clarity had been equally as encouraging as heartbreaking. He knew her; that was certain, and momentarily seemed to soothe at her touch, but the long periods of terrified delirium before and after had been difficult to stomach. Not to mention the apparent anguish that any small movement caused him. 

Whale finished scribbling a progress note and pursed his lips. “Well, that went about as well as could have been expected. His neuro scores are encouraging, so we don’t have to be as concerned about hypoxic brain injury.” 

Clearing her throat, Emma resumed resting her hand on Killian’s arm. Whether or not he consciously felt her presence, subconsciously she had to believe that she could provide a bit of a buffer between him and his nightmares. “Sure didn’t last long.” 

“Combination of post-anesthesia and his pain meds. Really, sleep is the best thing for him, as long as it stays peaceful like this.” He checked a readout on the complicated IV pump and made a quick adjustment. “It’ll probably be like this the first few times. You may have to keep reminding him where he is and all that; he might not remember each time he wakes up. By tomorrow morning, I’d expect him to seem more alert and possibly stay awake for longer periods of time." 

The physician yawned and did not even seem sorry. “It’s going to be another long night, Emma. People in and out frequently. You’re welcome to stay, but no one would be surprised if you decided to go home for a couple hours’ sleep.” 

Emma shook her head. “I need to be here for him.” 

“Your choice.” He headed for the door. “Don’t hesitate to call someone if you have any questions or concerns.” 

After he left, Emma watched Killian breathe, reassured by the small cloud of condensation that formed on the inside of his mask each time he exhaled. Then she composed a quick update to her father; she knew he would take care of spreading the word to everyone else waiting for news. That accomplished, she settled in for her lonely vigil. 

Killian had endured a month’s worth of little to no rest, and low-quality sleep when he could get it. Compared to that, three or four nights of watching at his bedside was nothing. 


	42. Chapter 42

**_Present (Monday)…_ **

“Well _that_ doesn’t make any sense.”

Being startled by argumentative voices at his bedside was not the most pleasant way to wake up… but it was better than the nightmares.

“Regina, I’m telling you, that’s how Gold said to interpret it.” At least _Emma_ was trying to keep her tone quiet. “The darker the colors, the stronger the shielding.”

“It started at the compound and spread to Storybrooke. How is it suddenly concentrated here?”

Killian slitted his eyes open, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it was they were bickering over. Emma sighed.

“How would I know? We all thought it would dissipate once the monster was dead, but if anything, it’s still getting stronger.”

Wearing her coldest scowl, Regina resumed studying the tablet device in her hands. Finally, she relented, somewhat bitterly if the drugs weren't messing with Killian’s interpretation.

“Fine. We’ll pull people from the cleanup of the compound to take a look around the park. But this had better not be another waste of town resources.”

Emma did not flinch, at least not outwardly. But she did reach for the tablet, appearing confused. “Park? I thought it was strongest near City Hall.”

Impatiently, Regina tilted the screen in her direction. “That’s clearly the park, Sheriff Swan.”

Emma’s only response was a thoughtful, “Huh.”

Slamming the protective case closed, Regina noted Killian watching with tired eyes, but simply shot him an icy glare before turning and marching toward the door.

“I’ll call you,” she told Emma. And then she was gone.

Emma moved closer to Killian’s bedside.

“Sorry. I would have met her outside, but there’s a surgeon coming to take a look at your hand any minute.” She gently caressed his cheek. “Think you want them to knock you out for that?”

Grimacing, Killian shook his head once. The thought of more surgery was a lot to stomach just then--although the alternative was the possibility of permanent reduction in function, which was obviously worse--and he didn’t want to add post-anesthesia effects into the mix if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Besides, it couldn’t be much worse than the multiple daily nursing visits he’d been enduring, where they forced him through breathing exercises and coughing, leaving him nauseated with pain by the time they were finished.

“Shielding?” he croaked. His voice still sounded like the warm-up grunts of a wall-eyed seagull just before it let loose with a full-on cackle. Whether that was due to vocal strain or the breathing tube he’d had down his throat was not something he wanted to dwell on. At least the claustrophobic oxygen mask had been traded for the somewhat-less-annoying nasal prongs during the day, which helped the communication issue.

Emma fished an ice chip from the cup on the bedside table and popped it into his mouth. They never helped much but were better than nothing.

“Yeah. Whatever is preventing the use of magic,” Emma explained. “Rumplestiltskin helped figure out a way to show it on a map. We were hoping to pinpoint its source so we can shut it off.”

“Croc…?” he managed around the soothing ice shard. Emma made a face.

“When I went to go punch him in the… I mean, went to go get Hope, remember?”

_Hope dead._

His eyes were open. All the details of the hospital room, his wife at his side, all plainly visible. Yet all he could see was the gruesome conjured figure of a corpse. A tiny, bloodied body. Meant as protection, intended to haunt him for only a fleeting, temporary span of time, yet necessary for so much longer and now much too close to the surface. Too detailed. Too real. Tainting all of his memories from before.

On instinct, Killian began to reach for his face, as if by digging his fingers into his eyes or even gouging them out could erase that image, but he was thwarted by tandem, grating pains in shoulder joint and daggered ribs. Momentarily overwhelmed, he squeezed his eyes shut, but that only served to bring the nightmare images back into full focus. Emma saw his torment and placed a gentle hand on his forearm.

“Killian?”

“I need… to see her…” he gritted out, one growling word at a time.

"I know you do," soothed Emma. _Hope kidnapped._ "I just wasn't sure about having her see you like this..." _Hope tortured._ "And I don't think she's allowed in here, anyway." _Hope dead._

_Hope dead._

_Hope DEAD._

Killian hiccuped a sob and again started to reach for his eyes, despite his damaged shoulder, despite the torn hand and shattered, spiked wrist. _Hope dead._ SCREAM FOR ME, TRIPOD. _Dead..._ I REQUIRE YOUR SCREAMS.

Emma had a firm grip on both of Killian's arms, but he was struggling to free himself, compelled to scrabble the graphic pictures from his mind, welcoming the pain as a desperate alternative to the voices persecuting him.

"Killian! Killian!" Emma was shouting. She probably only had trouble containing his flailing limbs due to not wanting to squeeze him too hard, but a part of him craved that. The machines monitoring his condition began chiming their various alarms as his vitals went haywire, responding to the struggle taking place.

"She's fine, Killian; I swear to you! She got to spend a _single_ exciting day with Belle and now is getting spoiled rotten by her grandparents. Look, I'll show you, but you've gotta stop this! You're hurting yourself!"

With difficulty, Killian reigned in the impulses driving the thrashing, pressing both arms hard into the mattress underneath him as his fisted hand pulsed with blazing fire. Shuddering, he panted through clenched teeth and tried to focus on his wife. Seeing him settling, Emma fumbled her phone from a pocket and trembled her way through the process of unlocking the screen and navigating to the photo gallery.

"Here, see?" She sounded frantic, her voice thin and high. "This was this morning, while you were down in Radiology." She thrust the phone at him, too close to properly see even if her hands weren't shaking and his eyes blurred with tears. Before Killian had time to try and focus on the image, Emma was swiping to the next picture.

There was a small form, dressed in familiar colors and radiating an apparent happiness as she was enfolded tightly in strong, masculine arms. The next blur was zoomed out to show a man's face, a hand cradling soft curls against his chest. Killian blinked, tears running freely now, and caught a quick glimpse of an emotional David before the obscuring haze was back. Emma flipped through more images, sniffling as well at the memory of her parents' reunion with Hope. Killian's pulse and blood pressure had calmed slightly as his mind focused on the sight in front of him.

"They were happy to see her," she said softly, then laughed once. "And Hope was totally oblivious to how much they had missed her. She would only tolerate so much cuddling before it was time to play."

Killian's tearful grimace was almost a smile, picturing the scene as Emma had described it. Little Hope was only ever snuggly when tired; at all other times it was go, go, go.

A stark contrast to the motionless corpse of his visions.

_Hope kidnapped, Hope--_

Killian scowled at the phone, trying to drive false images away with the truth. This morning, Emma had said. This morning, Hope had been swept up in her grandfather's arms, had planted a sticky kiss on her grandmother's cheek, had run off to play with uncle Neal, every moment captured in loving detail by her mother's phone and laid out plain for him to see…

A single glint of red wormed its way among the blur. Perhaps a ribbon, perhaps a sports ball, a cardinal's wing or even Swan's leather jacket caught somehow in frame. Whatever the culprit, it was enough.

Crimson spread from that single point, blending with his tears to engulf happy, innocent pictures in vivid blood. Blood, on the grass, in the sky, blood on David's hands and on Snow's cheek, in Wilby’s fur. Blood. Hope was bathed in blood, drowning in it, _tortured,_ cold and _dead,_ her loved ones grieving and painted with her blood.

With a horrified cry, Killian grabbed at his face, and this time, Emma was too slow. Over-stretched tendons groaned within his shoulder, severed flesh inside his hand combusting along the way, but Killian ignored it all. The pointed end of the wrist ring left a shallow gouge beneath his eye, even through the layers of gauze surrounding it, and as Emma dropped her phone, Killian moaned,

"It's not enough. Not..." A sob caught in his throat. He heard Emma pleading with him, felt her hands on his wrists, but all he could see was the blood. "Swan... please…!"

"You'll see her!" Emma cried, near hysteria. "I'll bring her, sneak her past the nurses and Whale; to hell with their rules! But I need you to calm down!"

Whimpering, Killian continued digging both wrists into his eye sockets, shaking with horror and anguish. Emma managed to yank his now-bleeding hand away, but it took both of her own to do it. Practically kneeling on the pinioned arm, she cursed and hit the nurse call button.

NO HOPE, TRIPOD.

Maybe his Master was right, thought Killian as twisting, cramping pain invaded his fragile lung. Maybe he would never be free of the horrific images. Maybe all hope really was lost.

Perhaps he should have never stopped praying for death to claim him.


	43. Chapter 43

**_Present (Monday, continued)…_ **

“Deeeeeep inna hundred acre wood…”

A little voice sang, high and sweet, while a tiny body wandered the periphery of the darkened cathedral, perfect miniature fingers trailing sanded oak walls, touching each crack where the boards were joined, sometimes slapping them with a giggle. Killian lay flat on his back, completely immobile, straining to protect his daughter. He needed to get her away from there somehow, before his Master noticed her, before she was caught up in its tortures, her body broken and cast aside like a rag doll. 

His words came out silent. And she continued to sing.

“Donkey named Eeyore, little friend… Kanga, Roo, Curious George, tee-hee-hee…”

Killian could feel his heart pounding with the terror of Hope’s imminent discovery and violent death, all of his nightmare scenarios coming true before his eyes. Still, voice and movement remained out of reach. And the waves of pain accompanying the effort only convinced him of the reality of the situation. But then came another voice that did not belong in that sanctuary of horrors.

“Shhh, baby; Papa is trying to sleep, remember?”

Killian's eyes snapped open and before anything had a chance to register--his surroundings, who was with him, even the throbbing pain in shoulder, chest, and hand--he was scrambling to push himself up to his elbows. Anguish tore through his upper body as he heard Hope squeal, 

“Oh! Papa waked up!”

Killian fell back against the mattress, panting a grimace and still in the throes of dream disorientation. There was a commotion, Emma speaking quietly and urgently to someone else nearby, and then he felt her at his side, resting her hand on his upper arm.

“Shh, Killian, settle down. Lemme help you.”

The bed shifted suddenly beneath him, the quiet grumble of a motor sending vibrations through his chest and shoulder as the top half of the mattress slowly elevated. The movement made him dizzy, but his eyes were glued on the angelic face in the corner. She was in the arms of someone, being gazed upon by someone else, but it was like the radiance of her sharp outlines blasted away every other detail and left the rest of the scene in smeared, muted watercolor. Eerie prickles blanketed his face as jagged cracks begin to form in the crystalline layers of falsehood within his mind.

“Breathe, Killian,” pleaded a worried voice beside him. A chiming machine nearby seemed to second the request. But Killian wasn't sure he even remembered how, until he suddenly realized he wanted nothing more than to greet the daughter the fates had restored to him. His chest expanded, filling him with life and light and longing. 

“Hope,” he whispered, the name as much a plea to hold her close as it was an expression of unbridled joy and near-disbelief all rolled into one. The bed stopped moving, and though the change in position had intensified his pain, Killian did not comment; he was too caught up in the moment to pay it much heed. In fact, he even started reaching for the grinning toddler, until his blazing shoulder reminded him why that was a bad idea.

The two observers moved closer, and enough orientation had returned for him to identify them as David and Snow White, yet still, he only had eyes for Hope. Wearing a watery smile, Snow passed her granddaughter to Emma and then stepped back. Seeing the desperate look on her husband's face, Emma gently spoke to their wriggly daughter.

“I think Papa wants a hug. Do you want to give him a hug?”

“I want a hug too, Mama.”

“Okay, just remember Papa's owies, okay? You need to be very soft and still by him.”

Hope looked a little bit intimidated at first by her mother's somber tone, but soon enough she was reaching both arms out toward Killian. After double-checking Killian's expression for permission, which was unnecessary and they both knew it, Emma settled her carefully against his right side, between flank and forearm, where a toddler’s lack of caution might not result in serious harm. As Emma settled into a nearby chair, keeping a hand on her daughter just in case, Hope hunched over and laid her head on Killian's chest. Maybe slightly closer to the sore shoulder than would have been comfortable in other circumstances, but the undeniable magic of the moment washed away such petty concerns.

Again rendered breathless, feeling as if he could stop time by remaining completely motionless, Killian's surge of uncontainable joy triggered the response that had grown so automatic the past month, back when such feelings would lead to certain doom. The vision, and the mantra, both so at odds with what his senses were telling him was true but inescapable nonetheless. Desperate to override the mental reflex, Killian curled a trembling forearm around the tiny body, tentatively resting his splinted, bandaged hand on silken locks as he silently quarreled with his internal voice.

Hope was _not_ kidnapped; she was _here,_ snuggled against him, delicate fingers patting him in imitation of what she'd observed in adult hugs. Tangible, indisputable proof, tapping a sweet, sweet rhythm next to his vulnerable heart.

_Not_ tortured. _No._ He could hear her even breaths, contented sighs with no trace of pain or fear. Nothing in her tiny wiggles suggested any distress, merely a toddler's natural restlessness and the drive to remain always on the move.

Hope was alive. So very, very much alive. Not dead. _Not dead._ As Killian tried to clear blurred vision, he could hear muffled sniffling sounds echoing in every corner of the room, and he was pretty sure that they weren't all coming from him. Not that it mattered. She was _alive,_ she was _safe, NOT DEAD,_ and his sore shoulder could not stop him from squeezing her tightly against his ribs, long enough that she grew bored and started to squirm. Bursting with energy, with _life._

Emma carefully steered miniature knuckles away from the central line tunneled within Killian’s chest. Reluctant to release his hold on his precious child, Killian kept his arm around her lower back as she sat up. Her beaming face could have lit the entire world, and lingering shades of grisly thought fled before the onslaught. Even should he have wanted to do otherwise, for some unfathomable reason, Killian would have been helpless to resist: he grinned back, tears and all, as the ocean reflects the sun’s glory. Sobbing one last time, his expression wobbling only briefly in the direction of pain, he whispered,

“Thank you, love.”

Adorable concern darkened Hope’s features, and she glanced from her father’s face to her mother’s and back again.

“Papa is crying, Mama,” she said, and she touched a faded diamond printed on his gown. Barely able to form words herself, Emma managed,

“He missed you, baby.”

Hope turned unsure eyes on her father, who nodded in earnest agreement. That may have been one of the biggest understatements he’d ever heard, but it was no less true for it. 

“Why?”

Emma rested one hand on Killian’s elbow and used the other to rub small circles on Hope’s upper back. “Because he loves you a lot.”

“Why?” 

Before Emma could answer--or direct the conversation away from the endless spiral of repetitive questioning--Hope spotted a familiar item lying forgotten on the bedside table. “I want Oreo, Mama!”

She leaned forward, stretching her arms toward the stuffed animal, though she really had no chance of even coming close to retrieving it on her own. 

“Please?” prompted Emma, and she waited for Hope to repeat the word before grabbing Eeyore from the table. And Killian was struck by the utter normalcy of the scenario he’d just witnessed. Hope was _alive_ and Emma was still teaching her manners as if she would need them in the future, because she _would_ need them in the future, because she _had_ a future, because she was _not dead._ Tears filled his eyes yet again.

“Oreooooo!” sang Hope gleefully, oblivious. She’d been unable to pronounce the donkey’s name when first receiving him as a gift. Since then, she had learned the words to the song, sort of, and knew that ‘Eeyore’ referred to her favorite plush toy. But ‘Oreo’ he would forever remain.

“Do you want to show Papa your story?” asked Emma as Hope squeezed the donkey around his fluffy neck.

“Happy Bear!” she cried, nearly leaping to her feet in excitement and causing a definite jolt in Killian’s shoulder. Emma caught her arm and helped her to settle down.

“Okay, but you have to sit quietly, remember?”

David stepped closer and handed Emma a thin stack of papers sandwiched between two pieces of decorated cardstock and tied at one end with colorful yarn. As Emma accepted the homemade storybook, Killian could just make out Belle’s fanciful script gracing the cover, which read, _The Happy Bear._

Half in explanation, Emma asked,

“Auntie Belle helped you to make this, didn't she?”

“Yeah,” answered Hope, already entranced by her creation. 

Careful not to rip the pages, Emma opened the cover and began to read. 

“Once upon a time, there was a very happy bear.” 

She held the book up so that both Killian and Hope could see the illustration on the facing page. The crayon sketch was hardly recognizable, least of all as a bear; it was a simple, somewhat circular shape with two eyes of unequal sizes and a wide smile stretching from the corner of one eye to the other. In that moment, Killian would have gladly classified it as the most beautiful art he'd ever seen. 

“It's lovely, darling,” said Killian in a gravelly voice, and Hope smiled and smiled. 

Happy Bear went on to have several pages of disjointed adventures, appearing mostly the same on each one. When they came to the part where the wind blew all of the bear’s hair off, and a scribble at the edge of the page represented the wayward pelt, Killian startled himself with a genuine laugh, the first he had uttered in who-knew-how-many weeks. Emma had to stop and wipe away a tear from her cheek before turning to the next page. 

It was a different type of paper, and Killian immediately recognized Emma’s handwriting taking the place of Belle’s. 

“One day,” read Emma in a quavering voice, “a very naughty bear came and was mean to the Happy Bear and all of her friends.” 

More circles filled the page, each wearing a frown, and it was difficult to tell which was the offending Naughty Bear. The next page had one giant, oblong shape towering over another half its size, and the smaller one wore a surprisingly recognizable expression of fear. 

“Happy Bear’s papa came and told the Naughty Bear to go away.”

They had reached the final page. Emma's voice was thick as she read, 

“Happy Bear loved her papa very, very much.”

The giant circle was joined by a smaller one with the distinctive, wide smile representing the story's protagonist. Even without appreciable arms, they were clearly locked in an embrace, celebrating the villain’s defeat. And Killian’s eyes were once again too flooded by tears to determine whether the back cover declaring _The End_ contained an illustration.

Suddenly, what he had been through and accomplished had taken on just a bit more meaning. To think that his three-year-old, with the help of her mother, understood and appreciated the victory, could feel safe under his protection and might one day learn to follow his example was at once humbling and reassuring. Everything had been for her, whether he'd realized it or not. His Papa Bear's instinct to defend his little one. And she was safe.

“Again, again!” begged Hope. Her excited squirming was causing Killian's shoulder to throb, but he kept a tight hold on her anyway. The tormenting mental images could not compete with the truth on display, observable by all of his senses. And even the pain was preferable to what lay just beneath the surface of his consciousness. 

Emma shut the homemade book, saying

“We can read it again the next time we visit, but right now Papa needs to rest.”

“No!” whined the toddler, but Emma was ready for this reaction. She got to her feet and, in an excited tone, said,

“We need to go meet Henry now, remember? Ice cream time?”

“H'ice cream!!" Forgetting all about her Happy Bear story, Hope began bouncing in anticipation. Emma quickly lifted her up before she could do Killian any harm, in the same motion snatching up Eeyore, who was lying facedown on Killian's abdomen. Whispers of panic flooded his mind at the sudden loss of proximity, and he gulped a breath that burned in his chest.

"Give Papa a nice goodnight kiss, okay?" Emma stooped to bring Hope within a cautious distance from Killian's face. Restricted movement meant he could not reach up to caress her, but he savored the sloppy smooch she placed on his forehead.

"Ni-night, Papa."

Killian could barely force sound through his throat, and the process was made that much harder by the fact that all he really wanted to do was ask her to stay.

"Good night, my happy bear," he murmured, sure that the desperation in his smile would frighten or upset her. But she merely giggled, pleased by the nickname, and thrust Eeyore in his face so he could bestow a kiss on a fuzzy ear.

As Hope began to sing loudly about ice cream, Emma straightened, shifted her grasp on the three-year-old, and brushed a gentle hand along his face, promising,

"I'll be back in maybe half an hour. 50 percent chance I'll be painted with hot fudge, though."

Killian nodded with a small wince. He was nowhere near ready for solid food yet; the longing he felt was for the company and, of course, the bliss of watching his little treasure enjoy herself with Henry and his family.

As Emma headed for the door, directing Hope to call out a “Bye-bye, Papa” as they went, David and Snow stepped forward to take her place. Tearing his eyes away from the retreating form of his daughter, Killian was, for the first time, forced into the realization that he had other visitors. That perhaps they had come to see him, not just to tag along with Emma and Hope. And he was suddenly struck with the reminder of what he had done to them both. All words of apology felt inadequate and stuck in his throat, and he was left helplessly staring, wondering if they would ever find it in their hearts to forgive.

Snow White was wearing a gentle, sad smile as she dug in a bag at her side. 

“We should be going, too,” she told him. “But... we thought this might be helpful.”

She seemed a bit timid about the suggestion, as if it were in response to some information she was afraid he wouldn't want her to know. From her bag, she produced a plain, brown frame and rotated it so he could see its contents: a color photocopy of the last page of Hope’s book, the Happy Bear embracing her papa, both of their smiles as wide as could be. In a blank corner, she had pasted a photograph portraying a real life hug between father and daughter, from before any of this had started.

"Emma mentioned that you were having some nightmares," continued Snow in the same hesitant tone. "I thought, if it happens again, that you could look at this when you wake up and be reminded that she's okay and that she's thinking about you.”

She placed it on his bedside table, then adjusted everything so it was within effortless view, and he managed one strangled “thank you” before overpowering shame made him avert his eyes. The room’s outside window had the shades drawn, blocking out the daylight in the same way as the pall of trauma, physical and mental, fogged his thoughts and prevented optimism. 

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, a bit too loudly, trying to drown out the returning words and images worming their insidious pathways back into the spotlight. “For what we… what _I…_ ”

His lungs seemed to be shrinking, a great weight pressing down in increments, and he shifted his bandaged, useless hand toward the line of sutures between his ribs, all to no avail. He could hear the desperate grief that had colored the words of both of these dear people beside him, saw himself driving the sword point into David’s flesh, remembered the lies and heartache, and then the torture and the helplessness as his control gradually waned. _Hope dead, no hope, no hope…_

“Killian. It’s okay,” David was saying, his good hand wrapped carefully around Killian’s twitching forearm. “Killian, look at us.”

He sought the framed drawing first. His link to the new reality, a mild balm for his soul, not yet corrupted by doubts. Snow White’s hand joined her husband’s, warm and soft upon his arm.

“We’re just glad you’re back,” she soothed. “It’s all over… and you’ve suffered enough.” 

Happy Bear hugged Papa Bear. Hope hugged Killian. Snow’s words, forgiveness implied, blanketed his guilt-ridden heart. He could not understand.

Killian looked up, first at Snow, then at David. Both were watery-eyed but relaxed, wearing honest and compassionate expressions. He could read their sincerity, bewildering as it was. He had perpetuated the worst of all lies, and perhaps they would never trust his word in the same way again… but they were willing to move past it and bestow upon him a mercy he did not deserve. Even if he’d had the breath for thanks, Killian lacked the words.

David must have sensed how overwhelmed he was, for his eyes took on a twinkle of levity as he added,

“You’re even off the hook for _this._ ” He carefully lifted his wrist a fraction to call attention to the sling he still wore, and Killian found himself raising an eyebrow in response, more in bemusement than anything else. David sighed, looking off into the distance as he feigned annoyance. “I sort of… owed you that one.”

Before Killian could protest-- _that wasn’t_ real, _though,_ and anyway, ancient history had been the last thing on his mind when he’d been forced to stab David--Snow White interjected,

“And actually, Killian… we wanted to thank you for what you did. You made the Realms safe again, for us, for Neal… I don’t think we can ever truly repay you for that.”

She bent and placed a soft kiss on his tousled hair, then stepped back to allow David access. He took an awkward look at his injured son-in-law, possibly trying to figure out a way to shake hands or pat him on the back without hurting him. Finally settling for a light squeeze of his mostly intact forearm, he smirked,

“Seconded. But I’m _not_ kissing you.”

Killian came perilously close to laughing for the second time that day, and only stopped because of the threat of unbearable pain from the required muscles. He caught himself with a grimace; when he opened his eyes again, David was just hiding a wince of contrition.

“Get better soon.”

Finally finding his voice, Killian met each of their gazes in turn as he breathed,

“Thank you.”

A sudden, overpowering weariness washed over Killian as his visitors took their leave, and though he still feared what his dreams would bring, he was better equipped this time to meet twisted memory in battle. He had his family’s thanks and forgiveness, the promise of future encouragement, and most importantly, the lingering feeling of Hope’s touch, real and solid against the threat of ethereal phantoms. Perhaps it would be enough this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Shout-out to my best friend's little girl, who is a few years older now, but memories of visiting her at that age provided much of the inspiration for toddler Hope. The story book was based on one by baby ListerOfTardis, though, and I have to wonder if the poor hairless bear was an early stage of my metamorphosis into a whumper! XD**


	44. Chapter 44

**_Present (Tuesday)…_ **

Detective Jones' first impression, as Regina pushed his wheelchair into Killian's room, was that his twin looked markedly worse than when he'd last seen him. Not that he'd expected a miraculous recovery--magic was still being suppressed somehow, so any healing would have to be done in a conventional manner--but Jones would have thought that a few days of intensive medical care might afford him some measure of regained strength. Instead, he appeared even more gaunt then before, and very little color could be seen on his skin, apart from the purplish black where bruising still had a gruesome foothold. His eyes were closed, lids brushed with dusky shadows, and he wore a barely discernible frown, as if suffering from pain even in sleep. Emma was at his bedside, of course, resting one hand over his bandaged arm where it lay atop his blanket. Henry was there too, sitting in a chair in an out-of-the-way corner of the room. He was the first to notice the new arrivals, and he greeted them with a wan smile.

Jones had a fairly good poker face and thus could be confident his shock would not be apparent to Emma. Which, upon reflection, served little purpose anyway; she knew how bad her husband looked, no doubt about that. Jones nodded a somber hello as Regina rolled him to a stop near the foot of the bed.

"Hey. You outta here?" murmured Emma, setting her phone on the table so she could have both hands free.

"At last," he replied, matching her volume. "Just thought we'd stop by first and see how things are coming along."

Emma looked slightly evasive as she said,

"Improving, slowly... his visit with Hope seems to have really made a difference."

"I imagine so," Jones said with a grin. He saw the framed artwork on the table and thought fondly of similar creations by his own daughter. If that didn't help Killian to feel better, then nothing would.

Emma ran a finger gently along Killian's cheek. “Hey. Want to say hello to Killian and Regina?”

“It's okay,” Jones assured her quickly, “you can let him sleep.” But Emma persisted with her caresses. 

“No, I think he’ll want to see you.”

Slowly and with obvious reluctance, Killian opened his eyes, struggling to focus; first on the frame at his bedside, then on his wife. Finally, he looked in Jones' direction. An unnerving, dull sort of vacancy colored his stare, which Jones uneasily attributed to whatever strong pain medications were keeping him somewhat comfortable.

“Ahoy, mate. You're looking significantly more chipper then the last time I saw you,” Jones lied. “Guess that git Whale has his uses, after all.”

Killian might have been trying to smile; Jones couldn't be sure. His lips were quivering, their movements jerky and barely controlled, mirroring other small but noticeable tremors disturbing his person.

“I'm glad you came,” said Killian in a voice tremulous and feeble enough to be a perfect match for his outward appearance. He took a moment to catch his breath and then added, “I wanted to thank you for coming after me.”

He did not elaborate, but Jones knew the words were heartfelt. 

“I only did what I felt I must,” responded the detective humbly. “Just as you did.”

The following moment of awkward silence was eventually broken by Emma. 

“How's the shoulder?”

“On the mend. I've been assured I'll make a full recovery.”

“And... your heart?”

Jones glanced in Regina's direction; had she explained her theory to Emma? "Back to normal. Alice and the second Jolly Roger cruise are scheduled to return to port this afternoon; with any luck, I'll be capable of meeting her there."

"You'll be able to meet her there _and_ give her a one-armed hug hello," Regina told him impatiently.

"So you really think the monster absorbed the curse, and that's what weakened it enough for Mom to blow its brains out?" Henry asked of Regina, confirming that she'd at least shared the idea with those currently in attendance.

"Yes, I do. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't."

"Even with the shield against magic, though?"

That was a valid point, though Jones was certain he'd felt the same symptoms as the too-familiar curse, and Emma had mentioned seeing the telltale green light. He'd been too preoccupied to notice that detail himself.

"There had to have been _some_ magic allowed," reasoned Emma. "Unless you're telling me the Vocivore could convert..." She paused abruptly as if realizing at the last second what she had been about to say so casually in Killian's presence. "Well..." she stammered, "get its energy the way it did and... have the control it did... all with purely natural processes."

Killian was staring resolutely at Hope's artwork as if it were a lifeline cast into a roiling sea. In apology, Emma began running her fingers through his scalp, gently massaging the tension away.

"It very well could have been," shrugged Regina. "We might know more once the necropsy is completed. The other possibility is that the shield isn't 100% effective, or allows certain types of magic through, or something. The bottom line is, yes, I believe that's what happened, and yes, I think the poison is gone for good now."

Jones felt a stab of uneasiness as he pictured the unlikely chance that Regina was mistaken. Alice would appear on the gangplank, all smiles at the news of the monster's defeat, but before she could take a second step toward him, a wrenching pain in his chest would throw him backwards, out of her reach, forever…

"It was all for nothing, then," came Killian's halting voice, breaking into the terrifying daydream, and it took Jones a moment to connect back to the previous conversation.

Emma's "Oh, Killian..." mingled with Regina's, "What was?" and Jones' double winced as he clarified,

"All we needed was for Jones to get close, and we could have slaughtered that demon months ago."

On the one hand, it was heartening to hear Killian following the train of thought with such lucidity. But the audible bitterness in the words tempered any possible lifting of spirits.

"We... we couldn't have known that," murmured Emma as she stroked him for all she was worth, desperate to soothe. "Of all the ideas, the infinite number of things we could have thrown at it, how could we have expected _that_ to be the one thing, even if we _had_ known about the residual poison..."

Killian did not appear mollified in the slightest, and Jones could easily sympathize. It wasn't that Killian would begrudge anyone their collateral freedom or safety after his hard-won victory, or even expect gratitude for his sacrifice. But to think that there had been an easier way would have made anyone a little bit resentful that they'd been subjected to such torture for no reason. There were limits to what a person would willingly suffer, after all, even in the name of love…

Jones was voicing his objection even before it had taken solid form in his mind. "Actually, mate, I'm not so sure about that."

All eyes were upon him now. He offered an apologetic smile before continuing.

"That curse... it didn't work on just anyone. Or I would have been cut off from _any_ human contact for the span of decades. But that isn't the way it happened." He drew a breath, considering. It wouldn't be a comfortable truth, what he was about to share, and there was no guarantee it would help Killian feel any better about the whole thing. But it would justify the struggle, and as far as Jones knew, it was accurate.

"The poison was enacted to separate me from the one I loved. It only affected me in proximity to Alice. And from the admittedly brief impression I got of the monster... there wasn't a lot that it truly loved."

Killian looked away as the words sank in, a flash of nauseated loathing crossing his face, followed by humiliated shame. Emma swore under her breath and rubbed one hand across her eyes. But Regina appeared taken by the idea.

"Huh. And Killian's immunity, granted by way of being a former Dark One, meant that he was in the Master's presence for far longer than the rest, making it possible for it to grow fonder of him than usual. It makes sense."

Though she seemed reluctant to cause her husband further distress, Emma added her own evidence in a low, almost angry tone. "Those last few minutes… It _did_ seem to get weaker the closer it got to... to Killian."

“So really,” concluded Regina, “everything had to happen the way that it did. We've learned that it did not care for female voices, so that rules out Emma as a possibility. You were the only one who could have done this. Or, at least, the only one who would have been successful. Sounds like a one-in-a-million chance, everything lined up the way it needed to: your resistance, the way you were able to hide your true purpose from the monster, even the length of time you spent there. A week earlier, and maybe the Vocivore would not have had the time to develop a strong enough bond to be affected by the curse. We got lucky.”

Silence reigned in the room for several long moments as everyone thought of countless ways the scenario could have fallen apart and led to a more dire outcome. Killian lay with his eyes closed, but Jones knew he was not asleep. His forehead creased in an uncomfortable scowl, and every so often, his jaw muscles would jump as he clenched his teeth. Emma continued to play with his hair, probably hoping that the gesture would keep him grounded in reality.

Rapid footsteps sounded in the hallway, bringing with them a sense of purpose as they drew closer. Then Dr. Whale rounded the corner, wearing a grim expression. He hesitated for an instant when he noticed the somber crowd in the room, then focused on Jones, of all people.

“Detective, good; I'm glad I caught you. Care to join me out in the hall for a minute?”

Somewhat nonplussed, Jones glanced at Regina, then said,

“Aye, of course.” He turned his attention back to Killian, who was listlessly watching the exchange. “Take care.” He smirked as he added, “Don't let this bully drive you too hard.”

Killian answered with a weary nod of acknowledgement but did not seem to derive much humor from the jibe. Regina once again took over escort duty, and Henry got up to exit with them both.

"I'll be back to see you again soon," promised Henry.

Just before following the rest out the door, Whale held up an admonishing finger toward his patient.

"Stay put, Hook," he commanded, as if Killian could do anything else. "I'll be right back in to take a look at you."

Regina paused outside of the exit but Whale gestured toward a window further down the hall.

"Over there."

When they reached the desired rendezvous, Whale positioned himself in front of Jones so that he could look him squarely in the face. Without any need to be prompted, the physician made a blunt statement.

"Hook isn't doing well; I'm sure I don't really need to tell you that."

Jones couldn't see Regina's face, but Henry was in view, and his closed off expression mirrored the wary anticipation with which Jones awaited further explanation.

"We performed another MRI this morning, and the neural deterioration is continuing at an alarming rate despite his being away from whatever caused it in the first place. I've got people searching the compound for clues, and we’re awaiting any information the dissection of the monster might provide, but if something doesn't change soon, I wouldn't expect him to last another week."

Their little corner of the hospital seemed to go deathly silent for a moment, as if even the plumbing within the walls had paused out of respect. Jones’ heart went out to Emma, keeping vigil over her weakening husband and unable to provide much more in the way of assistance. To lose him now, after what they’d both been through...

"Bloody hell."

"What about the treatments you were working on with the other slaves?" Henry sounded slightly panicked, and rightfully so.

"And I thought he had better protection then the others," added Regina, icy cold in her own way of dealing with emotion.

"What was a benefit to him before is now a definite disadvantage. For whatever reason, the protection also is making him more resistant to all attempts to slow the progression. Like some extra blood-brain barrier or something, but nothing that we can obviously see from his scans. That's where you come in, Detective."

Whale's eyes bored into Jones' as the physician attempted to drill into him the seriousness of his next words. "Emma has already agreed to allow us to study her, the only other example of a former Dark One that we have easy access to. But we'd like to run a few tests on you, too, as a sort of control subject, since your biology is basically the same as his except for the Dark One-ness. Would you be willing?"

"No question," Jones agreed without hesitation. "Whatever I can do to help."

Whale looked relieved, as if he had truly doubted whether Jones would agree. "Great. Thank you." He drew a big breath, clapped Jones on the uninjured shoulder--which still wasn't the most comfortable gesture he could have made--and added, "I'll take a look at tomorrow's schedule and give you a call with instructions later this afternoon."

With that, he whisked away, headed for Killian's room.

Henry ran a hand through his hair, looking shell-shocked. "Man, I... I mean, I knew it was pretty bad, but... not _that_ bad."

Regina briskly aimed the wheelchair toward the elevator, practically marching down the hall. "He'll be all right, Henry. Whale's pretty smart, despite his looks, and don't forget, we're still working on getting magic back, too. We'll figure something out."

No one brought up the fact that magic had been unable to help the victims brought in before its disappearance. The prognosis was grim enough as it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **HUGE thank you to unholy-this, who unknowingly helped to make the resolution to this story so much better! The original thought was to have the poison defeat the Master no matter how it tried to escape, because it only loved itself. But unholy-this' amazing (and detailed!) comments helped highlight how it felt about Killian. One of the weaknesses of the original plot line was exactly what Killian brought up in this chapter: all of the suffering could have been avoided if only Jones had gone into the Vocivore's presence earlier. But having its love focused on Killian gave his sacrifice a deeper meaning and meant that no one else could have done what he did. Which is much more satisfying, in my opinion :) So THANK YOU, friend!**


	45. Chapter 45

**_Present (Thursday)…_ **

_Zzzzzzzz…_

Shave day.

Killian had only to close his eyes to be transported back there. That dreadful hovel with its table of pain. Those callous hands dragging a dull-edged blade along his jaw. And nothing ahead of him but more suffering. _No hope._

Focus on the differences. Warm, soft bed, no splintered, uncomfortable wood. Blankets and a gown instead of cold nudity. The din of automation replacing the scratchy ring of imprecise steel. Similar pungent disinfectant but less decay, less blood and pain and fear. And, most important, gentle touch. No intent to hurt or degrade. Only meticulous, loving care from the one person on Earth he trusted without reservation. 

“Holy crap,” teased Emma, “I think we need to get Whale to put a sign on your door warning that there's a handsome pirate inside.”

Knowing that he still looked like a wreck despite a neatly trimmed beard, he played along for her sake. “And what would its purpose be, to entice eligible nurses inside, or warn them away from his jealous bride?”

“I don't mind them looking,” smiled Emma. “What's the point of having a gorgeous husband if a girl doesn't show him off every once in awhile?”

Killian clenched his teeth as a wave of violent shivering overtook him; to a casual observer it would have appeared as if he were suddenly chilled to the bone despite climate-controlled surroundings and the layer of blankets draped atop him. Through nauseating pain, he heard Emma lay aside the razor and felt her grip his elbow in solidarity.

Whale remained hesitant to classify them as seizures, stating that the corresponding brain activity did not match any known convulsive disorder and responded to none of the anticonvulsant drugs they’d tried. Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility of eventual development into actual seizures, as most of the slave fatalities had experienced just before their deaths.

Killian had managed to catch snippets of conversations, grave tones and sobering words that betrayed what they seemed to be trying to hide from him. He would probably have guessed on his own, anyway, with his worsening state mirroring the course of the slaves who had preceded him in death. Sometimes he was able to comprehend what a shame it was, for him to have survived so long only to succumb now, when peace had returned to his home. In those moments he tried to take solace in the thought that he'd been granted more cherished memories with his wife and daughter, without a threat hanging over them, when he could focus on lavishing them both with the fierce love he felt for them. Emma would remember. Hope... he liked to think she would.

None of that mattered in the moment, though, as quivering muscles shocked every single inflamed nerve ending into high gear, enveloping him in a fog of inescapable agony.

Emma met his watery gaze with a sad, stiffly calm smile, and he read the desolate grief in her forged reassurance even as he realized that the attack was finally subsiding.

"Morphine?" she asked quietly, but he shook his head. Hope would be coming by for a visit soon, and he wanted a clear mind for her.

Her grip on him relaxed by degrees as some of the tension drained away from his body.

“I'm so sorry, Killian,” she whispered. “If only we could somehow bring magic back. I might not be able to stop these attacks, but I could at least heal your wounds and prevent some of this pain.”

She sniffled and before Killian could summon the breath to respond, she continued, 

“It doesn't make any sense; I mean, we thought it was related to the Vocivore, but maybe we're wrong, ‘cuz it seems like we should have found something by now…”

“I have something to report about that,” came Regina’s voice from the doorway. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Emma turned with a weary expectancy, and Regina stepped inside. She was the very picture of classic irritated aloofness, but she did glance at Killian and say,

“Sorry for barging in like this.”

"You found something?" demanded Emma, and Regina stopped at the foot of the bed. Her scowl could whither the blossoms off an apple tree.

"It's those damn pigeons."

"The... pigeons," repeated Emma slowly. In his mind's eye, Killian saw a ragged pink feather coated in slime; white, powdery droppings splattered on chancel cobbles; black and amber irises reflecting nothing but pure animal instinct. He heard the trilling cooing that had been the quiet backdrop for many a scream, memories as clear as if the blasted birds were right there in the room with him.

"Those ridiculous pink pigeons, Sheriff Swan," Regina confirmed, completely oblivious to Killian's uneasiness. "I cannot fathom how, but they're the ones responsible for the magical shielding. Pesky vermin."

Emma looked unconvinced, and Killian wanted to agree, but considering how the birds seemed inextricably linked to the Vocivore's presence, perhaps the idea wasn't so farfetched.

"Regina, are you sure? They're just dumb birds. How can they possibly block magic?"

"I'm... still working on that," admitted the queen. "But I know I'm right. Did you hear about those hooligans who set off the fireworks in front of City Hall this morning? Right in the middle of an inter-realm council meeting?"

"David filled me in, yeah; said he thought it was some Lost Boys from the Wish Realm."

"Well, as disruptive as it was to the meeting, it was a hundred times worse for our feathered friends. They took off like their tails were on fire and made for the Enchanted Forest or... Madagascar or somewhere; trouble was, they're too stupid to remember that for long, and they were back within 10 minutes. But in that time, there was a brief window in which I could _almost_ access my power; it was there, just on the edge of awareness, just out of reach." She made a growl of frustration, both hands tightly fisted. "I thought for a second that the shield was collapsing for good, without us having to do anything about it, but wouldn't you know, we're stuck with our usual luck again."

Regina looked like she'd rinsed her mouth with lemon juice as she continued ranting. "The first bird to come back, while we were still searching the area for any unexploded fireworks? A pigeon. A fat, iridescent pink pigeon. And that's when I made the connection."

"Well, I've been saying we needed to get an exterminator, but just because you saw one doesn't necessarily prove that they're the culprits."

"I think she may be right," Killian said with another shiver. "They were... fairly strongly bonded with the Master. Sometimes would even ride on its shoulders." He cringed as the haunting outline of the beast filled his imagination, complete with winged companions, its tentacles pulsating as they reached toward him....

"And we _have_ only recently started noticing them around Storybrooke," added Regina. "Just about the same time as magic failed. They’re remarkably distinctive, and I remember being surprised the first time I saw one."

"I don't see the connection," Emma began, still doubtful. "But it can't hurt to check it out. So say it is the pigeons. What's the next step?"

"That's the bad news." Regina glanced at Killian in apology. "It won't be a quick fix. Short of poisoning them, or making the town somehow inhospitable to birds in general--both of which are options that I can't see our critter-loving neighbors approving of--we're down to trapping and relocating each one individually, or trying to figure out what exactly gives them the ability to block magic. And either way, it's going to take time." She folded her arms, waiting for questions, but Emma and Killian were quiet, mulling over the situation. "I've tasked Robin with the job of bringing one to me for study. Don't tell your mother."

Killian was only half listening as a whole movie's worth of scenes replayed in his head. Pigeons, pigeons everywhere. He felt foolish for not noticing their conspicuousness before, but, of course, he did have other things to worry about at the time. 

He felt his spirits sinking impossibly lower as the consequences of the news took shape. No quick solution would mean no magical healing. He'd be stuck in this infernal hospital, recuperating in the conventional way, spending whatever time he had left uncomfortable and in pain. Somehow, the Master had managed to orchestrate continued torture for him; even in death, it was having the last laugh at his expense.

"Pigeons," scoffed Emma. "Pigeons and a crab. Who would have guessed?" Seeming to sense Killian's dark musings, she stroked his cheek with her thumb. "Sorry, Killian. This sucks."

"They must have evolved together," muttered Regina absently. "Developed some kind of symbiosis; they shield the Vocivore, and it gives them, what, shelter? Protection from predators?"

"Blood," realized Killian suddenly. The inspiration had come out of nowhere, a thought buried deep within his subconscious that had burst unbidden into full awareness. He'd only ever seen it out of the corner of his eye, with no attention to spare, his own misery and how long he'd been given before the next Session at the forefront, always. But there they were. Pink bodies fluttering to earth, a writhing mass behind him as he left the church, squabbling among sticky smears and warm pools, dipping dainty beaks, plunging belly-first in some macabre bathing ritual…

Then outside. They would be strutting through the gutters, congregating near fresh corpses while his tunnel vision kept him limping in the direction of Z's cottage, never truly seeing how beady little eyes sized him up even as blood-crusted heads burrowed into decaying flesh in search of more nourishment.

"Um... what?!"

Killian returned to reality to find Emma and Regina staring at him with matching expressions of revulsion.

"The pigeons, they... they seemed to fear the noise and, f-for the most part, remained in the rafters... during..." He hesitated, winced, then carried on with great effort. "But afterward... the Master didn't care about the stains on the floor, yet I never saw fresh blood when I first arrived. I... I think the pigeons... consumed it."

Killian thought he might vomit. Both of his visitors seemed to share the feeling.

"Okay, that's... disgusting."

Regina gulped and plastered on a weak smirk. "So. ‘Carrion’ pigeons. I wonder if their feathers are just stained, then, or if they turn pink from some substance in the blood they eat, similar to flamingos."

"Gross," moaned Emma. She took a sip of her bottled water. "But hold on a sec. If they're so fond of... that... then why did they make their way all the way to Storybrooke? There's way less... that... around here."

"Guess they can do without it. Or maybe they live off roadkill out here."

"Overcrowding?" suggested Emma, answering her own question. "Better nesting sites?"

"Would have made an intriguing Exchanges topic." Killian cringed at the thought. "Had I known to ask."

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the trio, until finally, Regina grunted her irritation at the whole thing.

"Well, I can try to confirm all of this once I get my hands on one of those little pests. Guess it's good to finally be getting some answ-"

"Mr. and Mrs. Hook, get your Thank-You cards ready; I've just-" Dr. Whale paused when he noticed Regina in the room. "Oh. Your Highness."

"Victor."

Whale caught Killian's glower and smirked. "What's that look for?"

"I'd explain but I'm still recovering from that utter shipwreck of a salutation."

"Sounds like you're feeling better. Guess I'm wasting my time, then, working around the clock?"

"Did you have something to tell us, Whale?" Emma's feigned irritation fooled no one--it was obvious she anticipated more important news.

"We've had a bit of a breakthrough, thanks to the data gleaned from you and Detective Jones." The physician held up a cautionary hand. "Results look promising, but this is by no means a sure thing, and there's no guarantee of long-term success. We'll of course continue to tweak it as we go along, but for now I think Killian could benefit from an initial dose as soon as possible."

"You think you've found a cure, then?" clarified Regina.

"A therapy," he corrected. "To slow the degeneration and maybe, eventually, reverse it. Tested on some lab animals, then this morning on two rescued slaves who were near death. They seem to be doing better." He pulled a hand-labeled vial from his pocket and set it on a table with a flourish. "The FDA would burn my license and probably toss me into prison for this. Good thing none of us officially exist."

As Killian stared at the little container of clear fluid onto which, suddenly, all of their hopes were pinned, he was struck with unexpected anxiety. It was all well and good when there was nothing that could be done, his fate seemingly sealed. Now that there was a reported chance, he wanted nothing more than for it to work. He wanted to live, to be a husband and father, to watch Hope grow and be there for her. The vial represented that future... and what if it didn't work?

Whale took Killian's silence as reluctance, and he sighed. "Yeah, I can't guarantee its safety either, or provide you with a list of possible side effects. Just that for you, with your weird, extra barrier that we still don't entirely understand, I'd like at least the first few doses to be administered directly into the CSF, and we do know the risks and side effects of lumbar puncture. But, well... listen, if it were me or a loved one in your position, I would still say that we need to try _something,_ because the risks don't matter once the condition becomes terminal. Make sense?"

"None of that is in question," said Killian slowly. Then he flashed a short, tired smile at the physician, radiating self-deprecation. "Believe it or not, I actually do trust your medical expertise. I was only... praying for its success, I suppose."

Whale looked genuinely touched, for a fleeting instant. But soon enough his cocky demeanor was back. "You're right: I'm not sure I _do_ believe it. I'm gonna take that admission as another symptom and then we can just carry on the way we always do."

He tossed some forms at Emma, ordering,

"Read and sign for him. Assuming you want to go through with it, we'll be back shortly to perform the procedure."

He left in a swirl of white lapels, muttering a polite farewell to Regina on his way. The queen turned back to Killian and Emma, wearing a slightly uncomfortable grin.

"Well. Good news, then. Or, a seed of hope, at least." She brushed invisible dust off her jacket and made other _I'm-about-to-leave_ cues.

"Yeah. Thanks for filling us in about the pigeons." Emma glanced down at her phone, and a tiny frown creased her forehead. "Although you could have just called me."

Squirming, Regina blustered,

"I... thought the news would be better delivered in person. And... well... maybe there's a... small part of me that wanted to see how Killian was doing."

"That's most appreciated," said Killian. "Thank you."

Regina nodded stiffly, shot an, "I'll keep you informed," then exited.

Killian gritted his teeth through another bout of shivers--thankfully shorter this time--and when he could open his eyes again it was to find Emma watching in sympathy.

"Hope that's over with for now. You don't wanna be doing that while they're trying to stick a needle into your spine."

Throbbing and aching, Killian grimaced. He needed a distraction. "Everything okay, love?" he growled. "You were rather tight-lipped toward the end there."

It was then that he noticed the tear tracks staining her face.

"Emma?"

She lay aside the consent forms and wiped at her cheeks. "I've been so scared, Killian. Starting a month ago, but it hasn't stopped even with your rescue. I... well, Whale's been pretty pragmatic about your condition, and... truth is... I was starting to prepare myself to lose you." She caught two droplets before they had a chance to fall. "I mean, how horrible is that? You aren't even gone yet and I'm coaching myself to start saying goodbye."

She started to reach for his hand but stopped and gripped his wrist instead.

"That's human nature," he pointed out. "I've been doing it, too."

Her eyes glistened with sad questions. "We didn't... I mean, Whale thought that..."

"No, no one's told me anything; not before now at any rate. No one had to."

Emma leaned forward to kiss his cheek gently, brushing back some stray hair as she murmured,

"I'm sorry, Killian. Shoulda known better than to give up so soon."

His eyes found the vial, which Dr. Whale had left on the table. "Do you think it will work?"

"It has to," she said simply. "If nothing else, to give us more time. And you know... Whale's kinda the expert at this sort of thing, even if his attitude leaves something to be desired."

Killian was tiring rapidly; it had been one hell of an afternoon, and this was the most he'd participated in a conversation since his rescue, if not longer. But he still had one final question before hopefully catching a nap between interruptions.

"Whale mentioned 'data,' gleaned from you and Jones. Did I hear that correctly?"

Emma waved a dismissive hand. "Just a couple of tests he did on us; no big deal."

"You subjected yourselves to becoming his laboratory animals, all on my account?"

"And to help the other rescued slaves." She flashed him a twinkling grin, which softened into loving fondness. "But... yeah, mostly for you."

"Thank you, Emma, truly."

She graced him with a quick kiss, saying,

"You're welcome, and like I said, no big deal, and that's all we're gonna say about that." Noticing his heavy eyelids, she smoothed an eyebrow and then sat back. "We better do that paperwork before you fall asleep. Want me to hold it up so you can read it, or I could read it aloud to you..."

"Don't bother about it, love," he murmured. "You can read them yourself if you'd like, but I think we both know that there isn't much they could say that would change our views on the matter."

Killian cast his eyes on Hope's artwork once more before succumbing to his weariness. Perhaps it would guard his dreams and bring positive thoughts from here on out. Because now that he had a fighting chance at survival, healing his psyche had suddenly become that much more important, and it would most definitely be a longer road than the not-insignificant path to physical health.

Would he be up to the challenge?


End file.
